


Less than a Shadow on the Wall

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: You Wanna be Alive just to Watch the Bruises Heal [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Briefly in chapter 7, Drug Addiction, Drug withdrawl, F/M, Gen, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Most of the major triggers are in the first 'flash back' section which isn't too vital, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 46,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life has all but stopped for Grantaire, he doesn't feel like he's moved in months, his fingers haven't been warm in memory and the street just keeps changing.<br/>Jehan has known him most of his life, and he's seen him change. Then Jehan gets some life changing news of his own and Grantaire can't be the only one being selfish.<br/>Enjolras runs Les Amis, a political group in a little pub in the centre of Paris. When Jehan persuades Grantaire to actually get out of the house, if only for one night, he takes him to one of their meetings and everything is going to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Never thought I'd Lose

He’s in hell.  
He’s in hell but it’s not hot, there’s no flame burning the skin from his bones. There’s no red hot pokers sticking through his guts and impaling him high above the fiery pits – though he thinks there might be one boring its way through his temple.  
He can’t remember when he last slept, or when he last sat down without jittering in his seat, unable to keep still. His body shakes with tremors, and when he manages to suppress them physically he can feel them continue deep down in his chest.  
It started like the flu; he could laugh it off and say it wasn’t so bad. Then, almost as if someone were punishing him for his cockiness he found himself doubled over the toilet bowl, holding back his own hair as acid burned at his throat and his lips. He curled in on himself, then stretched out, then curled up to try and escape the cramps tugging his stomach to and fro between his intestines and his lungs. His fingers needed stretching, then his arms and his legs and soon that doesn’t help either and his joints join his stomach in a growing list of pains he’s given up worrying about.  
He’s shivering against the floor, chills running like waves over his forehead down to his toes, but he’s sweating so much his shirt clings to him even as his teeth clank together in his skull.  
He’s scratched his shoulders raw with blunted nails, they feel red but he can’t be sure anymore. His knuckles rub against them again.  
N-Need to- Need to get warm.  
His fingers and toes are a perpetual state of frozen, the blood not reaching them even as his heart beats enough for ten men. He watches his hands move with each beat, rocking gently up and down, up and down as he curls his fingers into a fist, crescent moons digging themselves into the flesh of his palm.  
Voices keep coming to check on him, warm hands that burn as they touch his shoulder or his cheek. They bring him tablets that should help and he sips the water they bring but as soon as the voices retreat he’s bent double again retching until his throat is raw and the tablets lie fizzing in the bowl.  
His body tenses, though he can’t really tell if it ever truly relaxed, at the approach of another bout of shakes. He doesn’t feel right, his skin isn’t his own anymore, nor the curls that stick to his head, or the eyes that sting with what might be tears and blur into darkness around the edges, though he doesn’t dare, doesn’t think he even can, try to sit up again.  
He thinks maybe he should read Dante, to see just how accurate his depiction of the circles of hell is.  
His breath shakes out in a shaky prayer, a near silent plea of ‘Please. Please, please, please.’ He repeats it over and over, over and over until it blurs together into something desperate, bitter. He thinks, if he could, he would be screaming but all that comes out are whispers and murmurs in panicked tones.  
“Please…”

~~~

Grantaire has spent the whole day watching the street.  
He’s perched on his window ledge, knees now seized up and thighs aching but he still doesn’t move.  
He’s watched the rain storms empty themselves on the street, and then the steam crawling like mist between houses until it’s washed back into the tarmac by a monsoon scale cloud burst.  
He’s watched the skies; the milky white sun burst through iron clad skies in glowing beams, before it’s chased away once again and leaves only darkness behind it. The patches of blue that speed away are like rips in a canvas and they reflect beneath the feet of people on the pavement below, passing under shadows of umbrellas and newspapers held aloft.  
The clouds have gone now, faded to white and wisps across a darkening sky. They’re golden now, reflecting a long hidden sun.  
He shifts his gaze, just a little, and his own reflection comes into view. Pale, hollow cheeks framed in dark curls that are too long but that he can’t be bothered to get cut. Icy eyes stare back at him and his lips move without his consent, they’re pale, blending into his skin, and cracking down the centre. He touches his face gently and his fingers are cold, he doesn’t jump – they haven’t been anywhere near warm in months.  
He’s not sure if he’s moved in months.  
It doesn’t feel like it, deep in his bones and their joints and all those inner workings that continue ticking over despite everything. Then again, he does remember waking up in his bed this morning.  
He doesn’t remember Jehan coming in though, the key clicking against the door or the creaking of hinges and floorboards or that inevitable sound of shopping bags being put down even though he’s told him to stop doing that.  
“Grantaire?” He doesn’t move at the quiet voice, there are footsteps clothed in thick socks. “Grantaire?”  
“Mm?”  
“There you are. I brought some supplies, just some tinned stuff and bread and milk… Have you eaten yet?”  
“Haven’t felt hungry.”  
“Have you had any fluids at all?” A shrug “God, at least tell me you’ve taken your tablets.” Grantaire taps the box on the windowsill with his toe. “That’s something. I’m making you some pasta or something.”  
“Stop it… You don’t need to.” Grantaire still doesn’t look up but he hears Jehan stop and spin and he knows by now that his fists will be clenched beneath the sleeves of his jumper and his lips will be pressed into a thin line as he holds back a retort.  
“Yes I do! Because one of us needs to look after you!”  
They’re fighting, Grantaire can feel it in the air, the crackling and heavy silence of static, the breathing of Jehan that sounds dragged out of his lungs, the way his fingers clench and dig into crescent shaped scars that have long faded out.  
They don’t usually fight, they raise their voices yes, but they don’t fight. Jehan feels tense, a small coiled wire in the room behind him and he allows himself to turn to look at him.  
Jehan looks exhausted, and Grantaire’s seen him at his worse. The bags under his eyes are visible from here, and the blue-green of his irises is dull, weighed down. He’s pulled his hair back in a ponytail, the edges escaping and falling onto his cheeks.  
“No you don’t.” Grantaire says eventually, and pushes himself up hearing the creak and whine of his joints as he uncurls. His fingers pop as he stretches them. Jehan stares.  
“Oh really? So you’d go to your appointments, pick up your prescriptions and actually go food shopping without me?” Grantaire passes him, rounding the corner to the small kitchen area. “You’re fucking un believable.”  
Grantaire’s digging through the bag, he’s not sure if avoiding the question is intentional or not but he does anyway. The contents are standard, beans, tinned tomatoes, bread, milk, cereal.  
“I don’t care if I have to get food delivered to your door every night I am making sure you eat properly.” Jehan is saying as Grantaire pulls out a bag of pasta and uncovers the bottom of the bag. He pulls out the final item and turns it over in his hands. Even wrapped in plastic it’s familiar, he can almost feel the smooth cover and rough pages enclosed. The sketch book is black; and probably cheap but it’s so very real. “Oh, you found that…” Jehan‘s on the other side of the counter.  
“You bought me a sketchbook?”  
“Yes.”  
“Why?”  
“Because you need something to do-“  
“No I don’t. It is not your place to decide Jehan!”  
“How long have I known you for Grantaire? You really think I’d let all this slide, for you to just fade away?! I remember when you use to sing, and you enjoyed it-“  
“Jehan…”  
“I remember a Grantaire who used to paint the city instead of just staring at it like some mournful puppy who’s given up on life!”  
“Well that Grantaires gone Jehan!” He opens his mouth again but a sharp beeping cuts across. It’s cutting and familiar and he reaches for his pocket without realising. Jehan looks slightly more perturbed, and Grantaire regrets everything he said immediately. The beeping doesn’t stop. “It’s not…”  
“It’s my phone.” Jehan answers quickly, but he doesn’t move for his phone. Instead he stands stock still, save for the movement of his Adams apple as he swallows.  
“Your phone? You’ve never had a boring ringtone in your life. It sounds more like…”  
An AZT alarm.  
“Jehan?”  
“Can I just take this?” Jehan hurries for the bathroom and Grantaire blinks after him. His mouth is dry and he can’t bring forward words, he can’t even think of words. He might be sick…  
He sits down on one of the bar stools with a thump and realises he’s still holding the sketchbook. It’s suddenly interesting, consuming his attention and dragging him away from any other thought because if he lets them come forward he might let the scream that’s clawing up his throat escape.  
He hears rather than sees Jehan come back in, such is his focus on the book in front of him. He finally lets his cracked lips peel open.  
“Is this my fault?” Jehan takes a deep breath.  
“No. This was someone else mistake.”  
“H-How long?” He asks after a short silence. His eyes drag themselves up to look at Jehan, seeing the dark circles and pallor in a different light now. Jehan wraps an arm around himself.  
“A couple of months? Maybe longer. I haven’t… I only found out a few weeks ago.”  
“Why didn’t you tell me? You must have known I’d find out.” His tone isn’t accusing, there’s an edge of sadness that bites at him.  
“I-I just thought I had the flu…” Jehan murmurs and Grantaire’s sure he’s reliving that moment.  
“God…” There’s a sniff. Grantaire gets up, drops the sketch book and holds on to Jehan like he might slip away. His hands are in his hair and clutching onto the thick material of his jumper.  
“I’m sorry.” He repeats it, over and over because he knows, he knows how that feels. He knows how the being at down feels, how the air in the room crackles and becomes heavy and how your relaxed smile fails at the doctors face as they flick through notes. And you know there are only so many things it can be and then… “You shouldn’t have had to do that alone.” Because the one thing he can’t imagine is going through it without Jehan by his side.  
“I’ve been going to meetings, and my Doctor was really great… I just didn’t want to worry you… I know that was stupid but I didn’t know what to think-“  
“I can’t be the only selfish one here Jehan. You have to take too you know.” Jehan, almost reluctantly, nods against his shoulder and brings his arms up to hug Grantaire back. “You know, for you I might even cook dinner…”  
“You should be cooking dinner anyway. Multi Vitamins don’t count as a balanced diet.” Jehan mumbles against his shirt. “And you need to get out.”  
“Jehan this is about you-“  
“I’m serious. You could come with me-“  
“I’m not going to the support meetings.”  
“I’ve been going to other meetings, there’s a political one. You might like that.” A pause “Just once? For me?” He can’t say no, he never could, even when Jehan didn’t feel small and fragile in his arms, even when it was the other way around.  
“Alright…” He murmurs “Alright.”

~~~

After Jehan leaves Grantaire pushes up the window sash and just breathes.  
The air outside holds the first chill of autumn and the smell of falling leaves lost down gutters and beneath feet reaches him, musty and yet fresh somehow.  
He breathes again.  
There’s the smell of the wind and coming rain, the muggy feeling sweeping toward him even with the cold air it brings.  
There’s the smell of tarmac, bitter and acid in its newness, heightened by the day’s rains. It burns his nose and this throat but he can’t stop breathing the smell of the world below him. The smell of footsteps and cars. Of workers, of take away shops and fresh cut grass, of the city and the steam, of idle voices and the metro quaking beneath it all. The city lives, its heart beats, it keeps on moving. The world turns.  
Grantaire just keeps breathing.


	2. I Only Thought I'd Win

He feels wrong.  
He doesn’t feel ill, or even rough. But somewhere deep down in his core and his joints and behind his eyes and in the tendons of his fingers and the bones of his ribs he feels wrong.  
The hall is big, and it echoes with the voices of people milling about.  
He keeps on sitting, staring.  
It reminds him of the main hall of his first school. Where he met a boy with curling black hair and eyes like an icy lake. A boy who smiled with teeth missing and laughed like falling rain. Who had passions and snuck up on him at lunch to cover his eyes and say ‘guess who’. Who made jokes and nonsense songs.  
Who he’d watched fall, sink lower and lower further into himself until he barely left the house at all. Who darkness took over in cutting wit and snide sarcasm and needle points and track marks. Who he still trusted with his life, but he couldn’t tell about this.  
A hand appears in front of him, holding out a paper cup full of steaming hot tea. He glances up the black clothed arm to the face of the man behind it. He’s smiling sympathetically, the expression pulling up full lips but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. They’re blue, like a summer’s sky or denim jeans.  
He realises he really should move or say thank you.  
“I- uh-“  
“I don’t know if want milk or sugar, but I thought you might want a drink.”  
“How did you know I wanted tea?” He takes the cup, it burns his fingers but he cradles it anyway.  
“More people like tea than coffee I’ve noticed, mainly a lucky guess though.” The blond man sits next to him, sipping his own strong coffee. “I just wanted to say hi anyway, you looked kind of lonely. And I know how tough the first meeting is when you don’t know anyone and everyone else seems to have a friend.”  
“Thanks.” He murmurs, and the man gives him another smile.  
“I’ve been told I talk too much, stop me if I do. Do you mind me asking how you’ve been holding up?”  
A shrug.  
“As well as expected. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to be holding up if I’m honest. It’s all… Technicalities but I have no idea what to do on the other side, whether I should be getting used to the idea, or continuing to remember exactly what’s happening. Whether I should be being strong, or whether that makes me emotionless. I had a friend… He went through this and I thought I knew but I now realise I never could have done and even after seeing him I have no idea what to do.” He opens his mouth, closes it again, and then settles for sipping his tea. It’s hot and it scalds his tongue, he can’t taste anything until the third mouthful a few minutes later.  
The man shifts, almost imperceptibly save for the slight shuffle of clothing, towards him.  
“When I found out I didn’t speak to anyone for a week, I locked myself in my flat until one of my friends practically broke the door down. I told him I’d been studying so hard I hadn’t been paying attention to anything. I’m not the best at… Self-management so he believed me, I think.”  
“I have a friend like that. For completely different reasons.”  
“You know, there isn’t a correct way to react to this, if you need to cry then you cry, but if you don’t that doesn’t make you emotionless. And I know what it’s like to not be able to talk to friends, but if you need to I’m here every Thursday… Or I could give you my number if you want.” He sounds a little unsure, his voice wavering in a way that sounds unnatural to him.  
“I- I’d like that.” Jehan allows himself a small smile, and the movement hurts his cheeks. He hands his phone over to the blond man, who gives him a smile in return, and this one reaches his eyes and they crease at the edges. His fingers fly in a way that suggests someone used to texting, and soon his phone is returned to him. “What should I call you?” He asks as he scrolls back through the list of contacts. His eyes alight on the name at the same time as it’s said.  
“Enjolras.”

~~~

“I can’t believe you convinced me to do this.” Grantaire mutters, the night’s warm but he’s wearing a green jumper over his checked shirt. Jehan glances up at him, raising an eye brow.  
“I didn’t convince you, I asked and you said yes. You’ll enjoy it Grantaire, and you’ll love the guys. There’s Bahorel, he does boxing and shares a similar ethic to you on work. And Bossuet, who I must, tells the most excellent jokes. Oh! And Feuilly, you’ll like him. He shares your love of art.”  
“Wow, we have so much in common.”  
“Don’t be like this Grantaire. If you relax a little you might have fun.” Jehan lays a hand on his arm “I know you haven’t done this in a while but it means a lot that you’re coming to this with me.”  
“At least firing down political arguments might be fun.”  
“Grantaire…” Jehan laughs and Grantaire shrugs nonchalantly.  
“You should have warned them in advance.” His hand slips down to twine his fingers with Jehan’s. It’s a familiar gesture, comforting in its own way even if it’s unexpected. “Are you okay? Really?” They’re walking as if nothing’s happened to their conversation, as if they’re still joking and Grantaire’s face hasn’t changed to one of seriousness – his eyebrows pulled in and eyes shadowed – leaving Jehan’s smile stuck to his features, just a little behind. He blinks. Once, twice, three times.  
“O-of course.”  
“Really?”  
“What do you want me to say Grantaire? I’m not doing so bad, I’m just trying to work through it and come to terms with it fully. When that happens maybe I won’t be okay and I’ll need you. But right now… I’m alright.” Grantaire sighs quietly, but he nods.  
“I know I’ve not been so good-a friend since… Everything. But I am here for you, I always will be.”  
“Thanks.” Jehan smiles, and nudges him with his elbow. Grantaire responds by slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him just a little closer. Jehan pats his hand, wrapping his fingers around Grantaire’s own cold ones. “I’m not leaving you know.”  
“I know.” It’s said seriously, and then followed up by a crooked grin. “You’re just the right height to lean on though.”  
“Oh shut up.” Jehan heads to the door of the bar, past the smoker stood outside. Upon second glance Jehan realises Feuilly is the shadow leaning next to the door, watching the sky above him and the smoke that curls away, reflecting the street lights.  
He taps him on the shoulder and the man jumps, nearly dropping the cigarette. In this light his dark hair appears inky, with orange tones from the light above. His brown eyes light up in recognition and he signs his hellos before nodding to Grantaire. Jehan spends a few moments trying to gather together his basic alphabet knowledge; he doesn’t think he’s done it since he was 16, to sign out Grantaire’s name. Grantaire watches on, his arm still around Jehan’s shoulder as his eyes follow the others hands. Feuilly nods and holds out a hand to Grantaire, and Jehan hopes he hasn’t managed to spell Grantaire’s name completely wrong. The pair shake hands; Feuilly’s skin is several shades darker than Grantaire’s own ‘hasn’t seen the sun in at least 6 months’ pallor.  
Feuilly waves them on after they’ve separated, gesturing that he’ll finish his cigarette and meet them down there.  
“Feuilly was born deaf.” Jehan explains as they push the door open to the bar “He can lip read, but he usually writes or signs.”  
“I knew I should’ve gone with you to those optional classes.” Grantaire takes a moment to gaze around the bar; it’s dim and smells of oak. The tables are recycled, the chairs mismatched and the walls are covered with old photographs and beer mats. “Where is the meeting?”  
“In the back room, one of them knows the owner I believe.”  
“Can I buy us drinks before we head down, I’m taking that we’re not late.” Grantaire leans over the bar to order his own drink before turning to Jehan. “Your usual?”  
They head up the short flight of steps to the back room, Jehan’s hand finds Grantaire’s arm again as the other pauses outside the door.  
“They’re great Grantaire.”  
“Yeah, come on. Let’s go before I go back and spend the evening in the bar.” He takes a swig of his drink, looking pale.  
Jehan can’t remember the last time he persuaded him to go out, barring doctors’ appointments and that one time he persuaded Grantaire to actually go food shopping with him. Grantaire had been sociable, once. He took Jehan out to bars, dragged him out of Uni work and poetry and out of their little flat. Then he’d moved out, then had come drugs and diagnoses and cold turkey withdrawals. He can see why Grantaire might not have wanted to go out; he’s heard it from people in the meetings but it doesn’t mean he can’t hope. It doesn’t mean he can’t be glad he’s managed to drag him along to this, to a place where there are actual people and not just the pair of them and a medical professional or shop assistant.  
“Thank you, for doing this.”  
He leans up to kiss Grantaire’s cheek gently, it’s rough from the days’ worth of stubble, and he relaxes just that little bit. He pulls him through the door and into the small room. The table at its centre is already full. Courfeyrac’s sitting on it, which doesn’t surprise him, deep in conversation with Combeferre. Bahorel is first to talk, his voice booming over the low hum of chatter.  
“Jehan! You didn’t tell us the guy you were bringing was your boyfriend.” Jehan suddenly realises he’s still holding Grantaire’s hand, and then realises how that probably looks to the group. He opens his mouth to say something.  
“He’s making sure I don’t run away.” Grantaire gets there first, and his demeanour has changed completely from just one minute ago. Suddenly it’s like they’re 18 again and Grantaire’s pulled Jehan out for his first legal drink, even though he turned 18 a month ago and is telling him he’ll love the place.  
To be fair, he really did.  
“Rude, we’re not that bad that you need to be dragged here.” Bahorel folds his arms and pouts like a 7 year old child. The expression, on a man his size with a partially shaved head, is rather out of place.  
“Grantaire this is Bahorel.”  
“The boxer? I used to box.” Grantaire’s going to shake his hand, and Jehan would think he was completely okay if his other hand wasn’t still clammy against his own.  
“I might have to spar with you sometime, I usually do it with Feuilly but you can only get so far when you’re always fighting against the same opponent. And he’s actually pretty good. Aren’t you?” He nudges Feuilly, and then signs something to him and Feuilly laughs. It’s a rusty laugh from a voice box that’s never been used. “He’s reminding me of the time he completely floored me in front of everyone.” Grantaire compares the two, the leaner build of Feuilly compared to Bahorel’s stockier, wide shoulders.  
“That I’d pay to see.”  
“Jehan!” Another voice, he turns to see Courfeyrac pushing himself up off of the table and making his way over “Enjolras’s crazy speech last week didn’t scare you off.”  
“Why would it have scared me off?”  
“It nearly scared me off and I’ve known the guy for a few years. Oo, is this the friend?”  
“Yes. Courfeyrac, Grantaire.” Courfeyrac’s hazel eyes light up and Jehan reminds himself to tell him to not be too overwhelming. His smile wrinkles his nose and the pale freckles there.  
“Welcome to our humble abode dear sir, I hope it will be to your liking. Just don’t let Enjolras put you off – he’s not all that bad really. He’s the blond in the red jeans over there. Yeah, the sinfully tight jeans.”  
“I think that should be illegal.”  
“I tried to get Marius to charge him with something with his lawyer powers but he said I was being ridiculous.”  
Grantaire’s staring at Enjolras. Jehan can admit he can see why, Enjolras has some kind of angelic beauty to him, he moves as he talks and his hands fly everywhere. He has a presence that is aided by his striking eyes and his favouring of the colour red. Grantaire’s eyes follow him a little longer.  
“The one he’s talking to is Combeferre, the voice of reason in this place. They’re so in sync sometimes it’s kind of scary.” Grantaire’s eyes jump, following Courfeyrac’s comments to the bespectacled man sitting next to Enjolras. He’s going over papers, pushing his glasses back up his nose as they slip, his brown eyes never leaving the page. “Might I introduce you to the others? Now Marius and Cosette aren’t here tonight because it’s their anniversary or some such thing, but over here we have Bossuet and Joly with their lovely beau Musichetta, they are probably the more adorable item in this room. Marius and Cosette are a bit sickening after about 5 minutes.”  
Courfeyrac steers them over to the trio. Joly, a slim man with gingery hair and midnight eyes is in the middle of a conversation with Bossuet, rubbing his hands together in a habitual way. Bossuet is almost the complete opposite, his skin like chocolate and his head shaved to near bald. He leans across and kisses his boyfriend on his forehead, smiling all the while. Musichetta, on Joly’s other side, slings her arm over his shoulder and her bangles jingle. She’s leaning back in her chair, her long curling black hair flowing over the back as she does so.  
“And Eponine is usually here but she’s sometimes late. Enjolras gets annoyed because she never says in advance. Personally I think she does it to wind him up now. And you’ve met Feuilly. Guys, this is Grantaire.”  
“Do you pause for breath Courfeyrac?” Grantaire enquires as follows behind. Courfeyrac shrugs. “It’s nice to meet you all.”  
“And you, we were wondering when Jehan would bring you along.” Musichetta grins in red.  
“How much have you told them about me?” Grantaire glances at Jehan and smiles.  
“I mentioned you once. Maybe twice…”  
“He’s said nothing bad.” Musichetta reassures him, patting his arm with long fingered hands the colour of coffee and deep burgundy nails.  
“Might we get to meet the man you’re all drooling over like a new toy?” It’s Combeferre who speaks, and he smiles kindly.  
“I was just getting to you.” Courfeyrac grins.  
“He lies!” Bossuet chimes in and Courf hits him on the back. Jehan takes Grantaire over to the pair; Enjolras is still going over his notes.  
“It’s nice to meet you Grantaire.” Combeferre holds out his hand to shake. “Enjolras will tell you as much when he actually begins paying attention to things.” Enjolras mumbles something, then glances up and nearly jumps.  
“Oh.” He gathers himself “Hello, sorry I was just going over last week’s notes.”  
“Dedicated I see.”  
“I like to have things in order. Are you interested in this kind of thing, I don’t think I’ve seen you around before that’s all.”  
“I remain a resolute cynic I’m afraid. Jehan despairs for me.”  
“A cynic?”  
Unchangeable, resolutely pessimistic and intolerably argumentative.” Grantaire holds out a hand “I imagine we’ll have a lot of fun.”

~~~

They leave late, the others gradually drifting off in their pairs. The air has cooled since they arrived.  
Grantaire digs his hands into his pockets and mumbles something about jumpers.  
“How’d you like them?”  
“They all seem great. Enjolras is fun to wind up.”  
“Don’t do it too much, he might not let you come back.”  
“You think I’ll come back?”  
“I know you will. You looked at home there; you looked like yourself when you were battling with Enjolras.”  
“Like-“ Grantaire frowns, but he’s cut off by a shout from up the street. Bahorel waves at them wildly.  
“You heading our way?” He asks as he and Feuilly catch up. Grantaire still frowns but Jehan makes a noise of conformation. “By the way Grantaire, I’ve never seen Enjolras so riled up.” Bahorel signs as he talks, as he had done back in the meeting. “I think you’ll be good for him.”  
“In the least I might help him improve his arguments; they were considerably more water tight by the end of the evening.” Grantaire’s shifted marginally closer to Jehan. “I might have to continue to do the service.”  
“We didn’t get to talk so much earlier, what do you like doing?”  
“Hmm?”  
“In your free time, I mean Jehan likes poetry, I like boxing. What do you like doing?”  
“Nothing in particular. Sometimes I sketch.”  
“Feuilly does too, well when he has the time. You work too hard.” He tells Feuilly who rolls his eyes. “Don’t deny it; you fell asleep on your work yesterday.”  
Grantaire remains quiet as the three continue the conversation. He’s thinking, it reads in his gait and the lines of his face, but Jehan can’t tell what about.  
He’ll ask him later and Grantaire will tell him that he was wondering about how life was like for Feuilly. He’s not sure if he believes him, but he doesn’t press it. Grantaire will tell him in his own time, he hopes.  
Jehan looks at him, and remembers how he looked when he was arguing with Enjolras. He doesn’t like Grantaire in that way anymore, and he doesn’t regret introducing them, seeing Grantaire looking so alive. But there’s a small spark of jealously.  
They hug their goodbyes at Jehan’s flat. Jehan kisses his cheek and thanks him again.  
Grantaire murmurs a thank you back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that it's obvious that the flash backs at the beginning are from the character whose point of view it is in the chapter - in this case Jehan.  
> Again, anything wrong, etc. please tell me.


	3. I Never Dreamed I'd Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire thinks he might be just a little bit in love.   
> Not like the way he was in love with Jehan, friendship creeping slowly, blossoming into it being a completely ridiculous idea to not kiss on New Year’s Eve.  
> It felt different this time. It was fiery, passionate. And, despite the bursting feeling, he was content to let it stay deeply buried in the pit of his stomach, beneath his ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a short section of drug use at the beginning of this chapter, it will be the first and only actual bit. Just as a warning for people

The room is dark, filled with smoke and the thick smell of resin. The walls are hung with blackened, peeling wall paper, lit by the small lamp in the corner and the candle on the table.   
There’s the murmur of voices from one of the other rooms but here it’s quiet. Only the oppressive feeling of silence.  
He leans back in his seat, tipping his head back to exhale a lungful of cigarette smoke. It disperses into the cloud above him. The other man shuffles on the floor, shoving everything off of the table, the candle flame flickers as papers and magazines clatter to the floor. He rolls out a kit, it shines and glimmers.   
“Hey, give me some of that…” He murmurs. The man looks up quickly from beneath lank black hair. His eyes jump.  
“Why don’t you get your own?”  
“I gave you mine last time. You’ve got enough.”  
The man digs around for a spoon, erratically moving back to the table. He holds it to the flame, watching intently, breath labouring out of his lungs like sighs. The flame shakes with his hands.   
He moves from his seat to one closer, stubbing out the remainder of his cigarette as he passes. He places his hands on the man’s shoulders, resting his chin there.   
“’S good stuff.” The man’s saying. “Got a good price.”  
“As long as it does the job.”   
He doesn’t think about the man with disappointment and betrayal in his eyes. Who will come by his house tomorrow morning to find him missing. Who will wait there until he comes back with excuses on his lips and apologies not far behind.   
He sits back against the front of the sofa and doesn’t think. A needle is held out to him. He pulls the belt around his arm and searches for a vein amongst bruises and pock marks.  
The relief is almost instant. The glow spreads through him and he can see it over flowing as he sighs. It’s golden, sunshine, it makes the room brighter and the voices are more distant, reality doesn’t exist past this room and him. He can feel the needle being taken out of his fingers.  
He’s floating, on a cloud above his own body. Everything is slow motion as the other man comes into view and then vanishes again. The candle blurs.  
He thinks there’s a smile pulling his mouth open and turning it upwards, but he can’t be sure. He can’t be sure of the voice either, the rambling chatter that’s faded into the background like it’s muffled by cotton wool. He glances across, the man’s mouth moves but he can’t make out the words.   
As he closes his eyes he sees Jehan for a second more, and it feels momentarily like he’s being controlled, darkness creeping cold.   
He blinks.   
The warmth returns. 

~~~

Grantaire thinks, maybe, he might be a little bit in love.   
Not like the way he was in love with Jehan, friendship creeping slowly, blossoming into it being a completely ridiculous idea to not kiss on New Year’s Eve. No, this was different this was quick like a train rushing toward him. It had hit him quickly, from seeing Enjolras for the first time to waking up one morning realising that this was something. He had no idea quite what, but he was beginning to get an idea.  
It felt different this time. It was fiery, passionate. And, despite the bursting feeling, he was content to let it stay deeply buried in the pit of his stomach, beneath his ribs. It burns like embers that flare and warm him every time he sets eyes on the blond man.   
Enjolras is pacing as he talks, he does that a lot. He also talks more with his hands than anything else. Every time he talks he does it with his whole body, his brow furrows and his shoulders tense and relax as his hands fly about him like flies. He laughs like that too, the few times Grantaire’s seen him laugh. He doesn’t do anything by halves.  
And Grantaire finds that he loves it. He loves the deluded passion that exudes from him, that sparks in his eyes and finds its way down to his toes and out to the ends of his fingers. He practically glows as he speaks, his words are almost visible, flowing out onto the table and gripping him and making him retort and argue.  
He opens his mouth.  
“Might I interrupt?” Enjolras pauses, then stops completely.  
“You will anyway.”  
“It seems to me that you’re going about this in the wrong way, politicians don’t listen to just out of university students with petitions.”  
“How would you make them listen, if I might enquire?” Enjolras leans his knuckles on the table, they’re white.  
“Rally up the people. They can’t ignore that.”  
“And a petition doesn’t show the will of the people well enough?”  
“Petitions are easily forged, mis-used and are rarely taken seriously. Action cannot be ignored. Well, of course that is if you can actually get people together, I mean people are rather keen to talk but don’t often actually take action on their words. They don’t like being… Responsible. Because someone else will change things, they don’t need to go along for things to happen… It happens all the time. People are scared.”  
“Even if we only get through to a few people then it is worth it. We can change things gradually if we have to, as long as there is change.” There’s the fire there again, the fire that says that he’s sick of Grantaire’s arguing but at the same time is thrilled by the challenge. He glances at the clock, and it’s gone. “It’s my turn to buy the round.”  
“Can’t it wait?”  
“You, of all people, would wait for your drink?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow and Grantaire swallows back a sharp spike of hurt. “The usual?”  
Enjolras disappears out of the door, leaving Grantaire staring after him, open mouthed.  
“Must you always rile him up like that?” Jehan asks, but he’s smiling.  
“It’s all part of the fun of coming here.” Grantaire stretches his arms up and grins.   
“Not us?” Bahorel asks, the signing is defiantly more of a habit than a conscious decision.  
“Of course for you, but I could meet you anywhere I chose, Enjolras I can only wind up here.”   
“That reminds me, the two of you; I’m having a party at mine and Marius’s.” Courfeyrac leans back in his chair as he speaks, a lazy smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Next Friday evening, I’ll give you the address.”   
“I’d like that. What about you Grantaire?” Jehan glances across at him.  
“Uh- Well yeah.” He can’t think of an excuse quick enough, not a decent one anyway. He can survive an evening with these guys anyway he already knows that. Just… It’ll be different won’t it?  
“Great! 7.30 start time. Bring drinks please because Marius sucks at choosing alcohol.”  
“Hey!”  
“You do! Need I remind you of the incident with the rose wine?” Marius pulls a face, then pouts with a lack of argument. The meeting’s breaking up; Combeferre makes the final notes before Enjolras even comes back down.   
“Where on earth have you been? Did you manage to get lost between here and the bar?” Bossuet asks as Enjolras kicks the door open.  
“There was a queue.” He places down the tray for everyone to take their drinks. Grantaire reaches across from where he’s talking to Feuilly and Bahorel, handing out their respective drinks. He goes back to the note pad in front of him.  
“So you have gestures for everyone here?” He writes and Feuilly nods, smiling. “Give me an example.” Feuilly ponders it a moment, then places a finger on his lip, drawing it down to his chin.  
“It means ‘red’.” Bahorel adds.   
“Joly’s the only red head…” Grantaire thinks out loud. Feuilly laughs and shakes his head, placing his fingers to his cheeks.   
“Joly smiles.” He writes “All the time, even when he doesn’t mean it. And when he does he has dimples.” He places his fingers to his cheeks again, and smiles for effect.   
“Then who’s red?”  
“That would be me.” Bahorel grins with his white teeth, there’s one missing – the first molar on the top right.   
“On account of his far too loud and brash ways.”  
“How do you know he’s loud?” A pause “If you don’t mind me asking.”  
“He fills the room when he speaks, it’s hard to explain.” Feuilly taps the pen against his lip “But he’s just… Red. To me.” Grantaire laughs.   
“That’s a pretty good way of summing you up Bahorel I’ll admit.”   
“Laughter suits you.” Feuilly has written, when he glances back down “You should do it more often.” There’s a small smile and Grantaire manages one in return.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Laughter.” Feuilly raises his hands and presses his lips together, trying to explain. “Looks different on different people. Bahorel’s is big, his chest expands and his shoulders raise and he throws his arms out. Jehan, in contrast, laughs in a small way. He keeps it within himself and imagine it’s rather musical to hear. Then you glance around and look. Enjolras laughs with his whole body, his fingers curl and his head falls back as he laughs, Combeferre instead laughs in his jaw, he rarely opens his mouth so when he does I know it must have been particularly amusing. Courfeyrac laughs in his shoulders, they always shake and his eyes always shine when he does. Marius laughs behind his hands, he goes pink, and I would think it’s a soft sound, rather shy. When Cosette laughs her face lights up and splits open, it’s very open laughter. Bossuet curls in on himself, he closes his eyes and lives through his laughter, it looks deep and like it’s from deep in his chest. Joly, stretches out. His shoulders roll and his head goes back if he’s laughing properly. Musichetta laughs very widely, she throws her head back like Joly but the way she moves is a lot more relaxed and open than the way he laughs. Eponine laughs like she shouldn’t be. She laughs deep in her chest and behind curved lips but laughter rarely escapes from behind her teeth.”  
“How do I laugh?” Grantaire writes beneath the descriptions, he reads them again as Feuilly writes and thinks that he should watch people more often.   
“You laugh like you haven’t laughed in a long time. Like you’re out of practice. But it looks natural on you, in the movement of your joints and the way your eyes shine. It’s a very genuine laugh, when you do it properly.” The paper is handed directly to Grantaire “You seem nervous.”   
Grantaire frowns at the paper, folds it and shoves it in his pocket.   
“I don’t usually hang around with so many people.” He shrugs slightly. “What about your laughter?”  
“It feels rusty, but I like the way it feels, the way it makes my cheeks ache and my ribs shake.” Feuilly doesn’t comment on the diversion, and for that Grantaire’s grateful.   
“Do you mind me asking if you ever regret not being able to hear?”  
“I think I’d like to be able to fall in love with someone for their voice. And I’d like to hear Bahorel sing, I hear he’s very good.” Feuilly laughs quietly “But no, not really. I like observing how people move when they talk, how their names look…”  
“How names look?”  
“For example the ‘r’ in Courfeyrac is silent; no one ever adds it when they talk. And the ‘En’ in Enjolras is pronounced as ‘On’. People’s mouths move in certain ways when they talk so I can tell when things are pronounced similarly, to a point. And Bahorel tells me if someone speaks in certain ways, what a deep sound or a soft sound looks like for example. Obviously I don’t really know what they are but I know how they might look.” He shrugs “It’s not an exact science, but I can try.” Grantaire chews on his lip.  
“You know.” A pause “My friends called me R once, because of how my name’s pronounced.”  
“Would you like me to call you that?” Feuilly asks, then holds up two crossed fingers. “It’d certainly be easier than signing your whole name each time.”  
“That’s r?” Grantaire mimics. Feuilly nods, smiling. “Could you teach me?” Feuillys’ grin widens.  
“Of course.”

~~~

“And then we went over the alphabet and it’s not so bad really, it just looks complex and I’m probably never going to remember it. But it’s a start. What about you? You were over with Courfeyrac and Marius weren’t you?” He asks Jehan as they walk home later.  
“Mhmm, they’re great. And ‘m glad you’re getting along with everyone, I told you you would.”  
“Yes… And you’re terrible when you’re right.” Grantaire nudges Jehan.   
“I’ll try not to gloat too much.” They walk in silence a while, Grantaire watching the clouds streaking the sky above him. He senses Jehan stop beside him, and glances around. He’s stock still behind him, in the middle of the road. His eyes are staring at the tarmac, hands stretched by his sides. Jehan opens and closes his mouth.  
“I’m going to die… Oh- Oh God…” His face pales in the orangey light and he looks like he’s going to throw up. “I- I don’t-“ His breathing becomes rapidly shaky, chest heaving up and down.  
“No, no…” Grantaire walks back toward him, but doesn’t touch him. “Jehan you’re going to be fine.”  
“But I’m not! I was so careless and stupid and now I’m going to die! I don’t want…” His breaks off in tears, but his doesn’t move to wipe them away.  
“Can I touch you?” Grantaire asks gently and when Jehan nods he puts his hands on his shoulders. “Listen to me Jehan; this isn’t going to stop you doing anything. You can live, do everything you want to do and more. You are going to make it through this. We both are.”  
“You don’t know that. You can’t be sure-“   
“Yes I can. Because it’s you and you’re strong Jehan, so strong.”  
“I don’t feel it.” Grantaire moves his hands down to take Jehan’s in his own.  
“Jehan, do you trust me?”  
“Yes…”  
“You are an amazing person, you weren’t stupid and this isn’t your fault. It won’t defeat you because I know you and you’re not the sort to be beaten. Alright?” There’s a small nod, but it’s unsure and scared and the bright lines of tears still flow to Jehan’s chin. Grantaire carefully wraps his arms around Jehan, pulling him into him and Jehan breaks down again. His sobs are the only sound in the street and his fists bunch against Grantaire’s jumper and cling there. Grantaire breaths and strokes his back, he feels like a life raft and he doesn’t have a clue how to make it better. There’s a damp seeping into his shirt.  
“Do you want me to come home with you?” Jehan nods silently but neither of the move from their embrace.   
Jehans’ shaking slows, his breathing becoming more level over time and only then does Grantaire kiss his forehead gently.   
“You’re cold.” Jehan murmurs shakily, it's a distraction, Grantaire's happy to oblige.   
“I’m always cold.”


	4. This Fire Beneath My Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras isn't entirely sure how they got onto the subject of Grantaire; it may have devolved from their change of tactics but he can’t be 100% sure. Combeferre doesn’t look up from his tea.  
> "He’s odd and mysterious with everything. It’s infuriating. And then-“  
> “Oh my god.” Combeferre’s voice is loud and cutting . “Please tell me that you actually like this guy.”

The waiting room is too warm.  
There’s a couple in one corner who he half expects to start making out at any minute and two older men sitting opposite reading magazines. Down the hall he can hear a child laughing and the clanking sound of those wooden maze beads.  
He’s read the poster on heart disease 5 times, the one on diabetes 6 and he’s moved on to a garish display about contraception and wishing he’d sat nearer the magazine table.  
He’d always suspected giving blood might be a little complicated his family have a bit of a history of anaemia and, on one side slight haemophilia. He’ll admit it’d be just his luck to be the first to have either of these as a major problem that will stop him donating blood when he’s the only one willing to do it.  
The doctor is nearly an hour late, people keep coming in, sitting down and then leaving 5 minutes later. He’s seen at least 4 of them leave with prescriptions already. He tilts his head back against the wall, pushing a hand through his hair with a sigh.  
Waiting rooms always made him nervous, not the appointment, not seeing anyone or the procedures. The waiting room.  
The waiting room with its sniffles and cries and children laughing. With its footsteps and ringing phones and creaking seats. With the dull drone of silence hanging over it all. He’s not one for nerves, but the atmosphere is stifling. He wants to leave, to ask what’s taking so long, or to just walk out the door and become one of the 16m people who missed their appointment last year (I wonder why).  
The doctor pokes his head around the door, he has a cheery overly white smile, but it looks forced. Whether from stress or something else he doesn’t know.  
“Mr Enjolras?” He stands with a small ‘here’ and they begin their journey down the corridor “Very sorry for the delay, we’re a little behind.”  
“That’s no problem.” ‘I have nowhere else to be’ he adds silently, but he doesn’t say it out loud for fear of seeming rude. The doctor holds open the door for him, ushering him inside.  
“Please take a seat. Now, as you know you had some blood sampled last week prior to donation.”  
“That’s correct; I have a bit of a family history of… Unsuitable blood.”  
“Well this might be quite what you were expecting.” Enjolras frowns and the silence weighs suddenly. The Doctor shuffles his notes for something to do, something to delay. He feels stifled again and he doesn’t even know why. The Doctor opens his mouth with a heavy jaw, the weight of words. The words he’s so used to using for others, that are so rarely turned back around on himself. “You’re HIV positive.”  
The words are thick around his throat and clouds his thoughts. There’s a haze of grey fog in his eyes The doctors’ mouth is moving but he can’t hear the words that fill the room. They echo in his ears but get no further. His mouth is dry from a lack of them, sticking to his throat in a lump that he can’t swallow back.  
“How…” He says quietly, but he knows when it happened, he can almost pin point it. He thinks the doctor replies. All he can see is a girl, a girl with deep green eyes and dyed red hair. A girl he convinced himself he should be sleeping with, because that’s what guys do. Guys sleep with girls, they don’t think about guys like that. They shouldn’t.  
Everything is suddenly thrown into sharp perspective. It’s icy, and like glass and the haze clears rapidly leaving too harsh images.  
“Mr Enjolras?” The doctor asks eventually and he blinks up. “Would you like me to call someone for you?”  
“No… I think I’d- I’d like to be left alone.”  
“I’ll leave you with some contact information; you’ll need to sort out another appointment to get medication sorted. And I can recommend a good support group, which I think would help.” He smiles, it’s forced again.  
“Thank you…” His voice sounds faint, somehow separate from him. The doctor writes out a few notes and hands him a card and leaflet. “I can find my own way out.”  
“Very well.”  
When he stands his body doesn’t feel like his own anymore, his knees feel weak, the paper in his hands unreal as it crushes between his fingers.  
He makes it home, and that small feat amazes him. His head is spinning so much he feels he might faint, or throw up. He calls the doctors to book an appointment then turns off his phone, throwing it onto the sofa where it stays, slowly getting buried in the cushions.  
He sits on the floor, his head between his legs to try and aid his blurring vision.  
He moves only when he needs to, shifting to his bed and then back. The TV blares some news programme in the background, but he can’t watch it in any sense. Mainly he just stares, at anything and nothing. Sometimes he thinks he can feel tears on his cheeks.  
He’s not sure how long it is before the knock comes. It’s loud and intrusive and he thinks he’s hearing things at first.  
The knock continues his head pounds in time.  
He pulls himself up onto stiff legs and drags himself over to the door.  
“Where have you been?” Is Combeferre’s greeting. His friend’s steely grey eyes search over him and into the room behind him. “It’s been a week since anyone heard from you, and you’ve not been replying to my texts. Or anyone else’s for that matter. And you haven’t sent me any news updates or anything. Do you know how worried we are?”  
“S-Studying. I was studying…” Enjolras’ voice cracks from lack of use, it scrapes out of his throat. Combeferre runs a hand over his face.  
“Jesus… Studying? You’re supposed to warn us before you study for this precise reason. Have you eaten? Actually, it doesn’t matter you’re coming home with me and I’m cooking because you won’t have anything here.”  
“But-“  
“No Enjolras. You’re coming.” Combeferre’s voice is firm and Enjolras feels like breaking beneath it. His jaw shakes as he opens his mouth; he closes it again and nods.  
“You’re right… I think I need to tell you something.”

~~~

“Why does he insist on being so infuriating though?” Enjolras asks as he paces around Combeferre’s small flat. He pauses a moment by the window, then continues his walk. “He has such excellent arguing skills yet he chooses to use them to be annoying rather than to be constructive. Every time we talk it degrades into some form of disagreement. To be honest I think he agrees with me half the time. But every time we do he gets such a look on his face, have you seen his smirk? It’s so cocky and I just want to wipe it off of his face but… I don’t know. He has such a fire in his eyes, they’re so blue and he raises his eyebrow just so and I know he’s going to argue about something. God…”  
He’s not entirely sure how they got onto the subject of Grantaire; it may have devolved from their change of tactics but he can’t be 100% sure. Combeferre doesn’t look up from his tea.  
“And he could be so much, he is so much. Jehan said he used to draw all the time and that he was amazing but he doesn’t anymore and I want to know why. Why does he choose to be so… Cynical. Why does he do the things he does? It’s fascinating. But he never talks about himself, he always talks about everyone else and I don’t know if I find that odd or mysterious. Maybe both! Just him. He’s odd and mysterious with everything. It’s infuriating. And then-“  
“Oh my god.” Combeferre’s voice is loud and cutting . “Please tell me that you actually like this guy.”  
“What on earth are you talking about ‘Ferre?”  
“You. Talking, at length I might add, on the subject of Grantaire. For nearly half an hour. That’s impressive, even for a speaker such as yourself.”  
“I don’t like him.”  
“No… Not at all. Not his very blue eyes or his smile or his goddamn hair. We’re seeing him tonight, just please ask him on a date or something. Or I will kill you.”  
“You wouldn’t.”  
“If you mention him again I will.” Combeferre smiles serenely. “Or if you insult him again, I will also kill you then. Or ask him out for you, because then you might die of embarrassment and I’d pay to see that.”  
“I’m not asking him on a date. Not when we argue enough as it is around everyone else. I would hate to see us alone together.”  
“What I think you need to do is stop ruining this for yourself because of your inability to deal with emotions and do something before it’s too late.” Combeferre doesn’t give him a chance to reply, and leaves him blinking “Now, if you asks and he says no I’ll apologise and comfort you, and if he says yes I’ll celebrate with you. Until then I don’t want to hear about a certain man. Now, will I hear about him on the way to Courfeyracs’? Or should I leave you here to continue your pacing?”  
“I’ll still be here when you get back then.”  
“I still have your spare key, I’ll go to yours.”  
“And if I go back?” Enjolras retorts.  
“You won’t, because my flat’s better for pacing.” Combeferre smiles at him over his tea. “So, will you talk to me about something else now?”  
Combeferre has vanished; with a knowing smile he left Enjolras to the room.  
An obnoxious pop song is playing and Courfeyrac is trying to persuade people to dance. Enjolras waved him off with a promise of ‘maybe later’.  
There will never be a later.  
Jehan and Grantaire have been the first to take him up on the offer; Grantaire spins Jehan around with a laugh that lights up his face. Enjolras thinks they’re jiving, it looks complex but the movement of Grantaire’s limbs and Jehan’s responses is smooth.  
He thinks he might be staring, so glances round to where Musichetta is trying to persuade her boys to dance with her, gesturing to the other pair.  
The song stops and Grantaire loops his arm around Jehan. Enjolras averts his eyes again. He’s both curious and afraid of the status of their relationship.  
His drink is growing warm in his hands, the lemonade rapidly losing its fizz.  
He’s still staring at Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta when he realises someone’s at the drinks table next to him. Grantaire is pink from exertion, dark curls sticking to his forehead. He’s digging through the bottles. Enjolras’s mouth goes a little dry.  
“Are you going to stand there all evening?” The voice is slightly rough, but it’s smirking.  
“I-“  
“At first I thought you were just staying near the drinks, but I’d wager that lemonade has nothing even vaguely alcoholic in it.” Grantaire holds up the bottle he was looking for. “Fancy some? Finest Scotch Whiskey.”  
Enjolras opens his mouth to say no but instead all that escapes is. “You can jive?”  
“Sure.” Grantaire says nonchalantly pouring himself a double shot. “Jehan and I took some classes once for kicks.”  
“Just like that.”  
“Why not?” He flashes him a crooked grin. “It’s fun. And not so bad to learn. Besides, I like to be full of surprises.”  
“Yes… That you are.”  
“You know if you don’t drink tell me and I won’t bug you, but if not please let me mix you something so you can actually have fun and not stand here staring at everyone else having fun. So, do you drink?”  
“Well yes-“  
“Well then, what do you fancy?”  
“I don’t want anything. I have this.” He swishes the lemonade in its glass.  
“You’ve drunk none of it in the last half an hour.” Grantaire leans against the table and raises an eyebrow. “I promise I’m good, I bartended once.”  
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”  
“You know what I think?” Grantaire turns to face him straight on.  
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.” Enjolras says dryly, sipping his lemonade. He holds back a face at the flat texture as it runs over his tongue, but he thinks Grantaire notices. It’s in the line of his lips.  
“I think you’ve been so involved to your cause that you can’t relax anymore. I think you’re so dedicated that you don’t actually feel you’re allowed to relax. The people will still be there. They will always need your help, but you won’t be able to help them if you’re too burned out to do it.” He holds out his glass “So, I’m telling you to have fun. For the benefit of the people.” When Enjolras doesn’t take the glass he pulls it back with a sigh “If I put some decent music on will you dance? Because either I make you a drink, or you dance. Either or.”  
Grantaire pulls the smirk back onto his lips, with a cock of his eyebrow and a turn of his head. The make shift dance floor now contains a trio of dancers, along with Bahorel and Eponine who are doing less dancing and more of him throwing her about, and Marius and Cosette. Feuilly’s leaning against the wall near the speaker surveying them. Jehan rests on the sofa nearby with Courfeyrac who looks like he might leap up and dance any minute. Combeferre watches himself and Grantaire with a knowing look.  
“I could try and dance…” He concedes and a grin lights up Grantaire’s face.  
“I’ll be right back.” He heads over to Jehan and murmurs something to him. Jehan’s face breaks open in a grin that few people seem to be able to get out of him, and he digs out a MP3 player from his lilac jeans. Enjolras hasn’t seen him wearing anything vaguely normal except the first time they met at the meeting.  
Despite Courfeyrac’s protests Grantaire searches through the music and flicks on a song.  
“I can take claim myself for Jehan’s good taste in music.” Grantaire says as he heads back over “His natural disposition to obscure folk music was unfortunately incurable.” Enjolras listens to the first few spoken words of the song.  
“Is this from Dirty Dancing?”  
“This is the Contours you heathen.” Grantaire finishes off the last of his drink far too quickly. “Come on.” His hand is cold in Enjolras’ and he says as much, Grantaire retorts that Enjolras’s is too hot. The song gets everyone dancing again, Jehan pulling Feuilly up despite the others silent protests.  
(Combeferre later asks if the irony of the song ‘Do you love me (Now that I can dance) was lost on him, he won’t admit that it was but Combeferre raises a knowing eyebrow no the less.)  
“Now you’re taller but I’m going to lead.” Grantaire shifts their hands so they’re clasped together. Enjolras is pretty sure he’s blushing, there’s a warm creeping up his neck. He’s trying to look anywhere but Grantaire’s eyes and he spots Jehan and Feuilly.  
“How are they doing that?” He asks, nodding toward the pair. Grantaire glances around with a ‘hmm’ to watch as Jehan demonstrates moves.  
“Oh that. There was a deaf guy at our dance class, and he was damn good. He did it by having his partner tap out the beat for him. Like that.” He taps his fingers in time to the beat on Enjolras’ hand. “Always fascinated Jehan.” Feuilly’s laugh resounds through the room as he and Jehan almost trip, signing a circle over his heart that Enjolras knows means sorry. “Anyway, this is about you dancing. So.” He takes him through a short move, pulling out, then in before a side to side step. “It’s simple.” Grantaire grins, spinning him around.  
“Says you.” Enjolras crashes into him on the return, straightening himself quickly and stepping back. He’s defiantly blushing. Grantaire raises an eyebrow in an infuriatingly smug manner.  
“You chose dance. Just listen to the music, I mean you can mash potato at least?”  
“What?!”  
“You’re hopeless!” Grantaire laughs, dancing along to the music, using his hands in moves Enjolras recognises. He tries to mimic, then Grantaire moves his hands to his sides, twisting his feet. Enjolras’s feet stick to the floor when he tries to copy him. Grantaire takes his hands again, twisting them around a few more times, guiding him through a few hand moves. Enjolras is almost surprised when the song comes to an end, Grantaire pulling him around in a final spin. “I’m not sure if that counts as a full dance, given how much you were talking.” He muses as another song starts up in the background. Enjolras groans.  
“You can make me a drink. Even Feuilly did better than me and he’s never heard a note of music in his life.” Grantaire grins lopsidedly.  
“You seem like a Manhattan kind of guy to me. Maybe gin and tonic?”  
“Manhattan’s, I don’t like gin.”  
“One right isn’t bad. But again, you’re a heathen. Gin is excellent. I’ll see if I can find any Vermouth.”  
“Good luck.” Enjolras laughs, and goes back to sit on one of the sofas. Grantaire reappears short while later, weaving his way through the people in a natural manner. He holds two glasses containing maroon coloured liquid.  
“Courfeyrac had no Vermouth, so this is a Ruby Manhattan, because apparently Marius likes port.”  
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” Enjolras takes the offered drink and sips it; it’s cold and holds the right amount of bitter edging. He won’t admit to Grantaire that it’s one of the best he’s tasted. It nearly spills as Grantaire flops down next to him. “I didn’t know you bartended.”  
“Why would you, I’ve never mentioned it.”  
“You don’t really mention… Anything. The only thing I really know about you is that you like to argue about anything and everything. And that you don’t seem to believe in anything. And apparently you have a liking for whiskey.”  
“And gin, you missed that one.” Grantaire leans back into the cushions of the sofa, picking lint off of his checked shirt. “You know that I can dance now. And I’m sure you heard I used to box, I mean Bahorel’s voice is pretty loud. It’s not just you Enjolras, I just prefer to listen to other people’s stories rather than talk about myself.”  
“But I’m sure your story is interesting-“  
“It’s not.” Grantaire cuts across him and sips his drink. “Yours must be, what, rich kid who works for the betterment of the poor?”  
“I try not to… Do the rich kid thing.” Enjolras mumbles uncomfortably.  
“I think we’ve established that we shouldn’t be talking about ourselves.” Grantaire smiles somewhat reassuringly.  
“Don’t sound so smug about it.” Enjolras raises an eyebrow “You Manhattan isn’t that good.”  
“I’ve been informed mine was, at one point, the best downtown. I’m going to blame the ingredients.”  
“A bad workman always blames his tools.” Grantaire laughs and nudges him with his elbow. Enjolras jumps just a little bit too much. “M-maybe we should find something to actually talk about if we’re-“  
“You mean argue about? Because I found this most amazing news article…”

~~~

If Grantaire comes up in conversation on the way home Combeferre doesn’t mention it. If the conversation slips from the actual conversation they had into how beautiful Grantaire looks when he dances or when he laughs or how smiles or how he talks Combeferre doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. He simply pats Enjolras on the shoulder and smiles.  
“Tell him.”  
“I shouldn’t like him though. I’m not even sure I do-“ Combeferre snorts. “But we’re completely different. We have nothing in common.”  
“What does that matter when every time you see him you blush like a school girl. You have fun with him and you, surprisingly, relax.”  
“What about him and Jehan, they seemed really close. I mean, we’ve only known them a month or so we don’t know they could be together-“  
“I’m sorry, but did you see how Jehan and Courfeyrac were flirting? Or the way Grantaire was flirting with you for that matter? I half expected to find you on the fire escape.”  
“Maybe they’re just like that.”  
“Enjolras, I know you’re terrible with realising things like this but can you please trust me. Marius knew you were flirting. Feuilly came up to me to ask if anything was going on between you. You’re blushing now.”  
“I’m not.” Enjolras places a hand on his cheek, the warmth only serving to increase the blush.  
“For god’s sake. I’m leaving.” Combeferre increases his pace.  
“’Ferre, wait!” Combeferre stops with what Enjolras knows is a roll of his eyes behind his glasses. Enjolras almost runs into the back of him. “I like him okay, and I’m screwing things up.” He touches Combeferre’s arm “Help me?”


	5. I Can't Believe You Love Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For reasons unknown to Grantaire the next meeting is held and Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s. Jehan says something about the back room being re-decorated or some such.   
> Whatever the reason he’s found himself sitting in a nicely decorated sitting room.
> 
> The meeting rolls on, drifting into a group discussion. Grantaire only notices Enjolras murmur something to Combeferre and leave because his eyes have hardly left him. Grantaire murmurs about getting another drink to Jehan and heads out to the corridor.  
> He takes the door to his left, finding it closed. Enjolras jumps as he opens it, spinning on his heels.

He hadn’t been expecting to find Jehan standing outside his door when the knock came.   
Jehan looks up at him with deep turquoise eyes that are partially hidden beneath wispy strands of strawberry blond hair. His fingers clutch at the ends of his oversized blue jumper.   
“I couldn’t sleep.” He mumbles the excuse. “Can I can in?”  
“Sure…” His voice cracks in his dry throat. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”  
“You’ve never been here.” Jehan tells him sharply as he pushes his way in. He doesn’t push the matter further, instead turning to face Grantaire. “So.”  
“So? Uh… Do you want a drink?” He tries.  
“That would be nice.” The words move back to him quickly.   
He nods and gestures for him to sit down, trying to figure out exactly why Jehan is here. His demeanour doesn’t say social visit, but neither does it say checking up either. He digs through the fridge for a couple of cans. He’s still buzzing and Jehan can tell; he’s sure he can and he pulls his sleeves down a little farther.   
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asks as he passes Jehan the can he thinks has been there for the shortest time. It’s hard to tell.   
“Can’t I just visit? You’re my friend.”  
“It’s nearly 11 o’clock.” He sits next to his friend, sipping his beer. “I’m fine Jehan.”  
“I never said you weren’t.”  
“Then why.”  
“I missed you.” Jehan tells him, turning to look at him face on. His tongue swipes along his lips. “Because you haven’t been you for a long time. And I don’t know if you will be.” There’s a sigh “I just sometimes wish I could convince you… Maybe if I could do something different or-“  
“Jehan.” He takes his friend free hand “You did nothing wrong. I don’t want you talking about this. Not like you are now. Not ever like anything is your fault. Okay.” Jehan doesn’t move. “Jehan, I don’t want to hurt you.”  
“Then stop.” Jehan touches his arm.  
“I can’t.” He murmurs. Jehan stares at him, chewing on his lip then pushes his hand through his hair, looking away. He touches Jehan’s cheek, forcing him to look at his face. “I love you.”   
Jehan stares at him a moment longer with sad blue eyes. Then he’s surging forward to press his soft lips to dry, cracked ones. They haven’t done this in years but the movements are familiar. Their drinks end up on the floor; he ends up pushed back into his sofa by Jehan’s hands and hips. They move in tandem, breathing in sync. Jehan only pauses a moment when he pulls off his shirt, eyes lingering on lines of bruises before he’s pulled back down in a crushing kiss.   
He ruins it by pausing to sneeze. Jehan leans back, raising an eyebrow.   
“If you give me your cold.” He murmurs as he leans back in. “I will kill you.”  
“It’s not a cold it’s a cough. There’s a big difference.”   
Jehan laughs softly and leans back in to kiss his throat. 

~~~

For reasons unknown to Grantaire the next meeting is held and Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s. Jehan says something about the back room being re-decorated or some such.   
Whatever the reason he’s found himself sitting in a nicely decorated sitting room. The walls are cream, but draped with various silks and lights and scatterings of photographs. The lights create an orange glow, and the murmuring of voices and laughs makes it feel like they’re around a camp fire. The sofa is covered in cushions, a throw draped over the top. He thinks the décor was Musichetta’s idea, but he might be proven wrong.   
Grantaire leans back against the wall on the small cushioned seat he was provided with. Bahorel and Feuilly have commandeered dining room chairs. Marius and Cosette have claimed one sofa and the other has been left empty for the hosts who are getting drinks. Enjolras drags his own chair over to the group; Combeferre sits cross legged next to him on the floor. Courfeyrac tries to persuade Marius to budge over.   
Jehan steals a cushion to plonk himself next to Grantaire.   
“I might be in love with this place.” He tells him. Grantaire chuckles under his breath.  
“I thought you might somehow.” When he’d entered the hall way with its antiques and large vase of flowers and vintage posters he’d been reminded of his friend. The rest of the apartment was only serving to strengthen that opinion.  
“Look at it! Where did all this fabric come from, or these cushions…”   
“Ask.” Grantaire tells him seriously “Musichetta doesn’t bite.”  
“How would you know, you don’t talk to people enough to know how scary they are.” Jehan raises an eyebrow and Grantaire shrugs.   
“I’m just that good at judging character.” Jehan rolls his eyes and blows a strand of hair that’s escaped his plait off of his face. 

Enjolras begins the meeting after the drinks are handed out, Grantaire sips a beer as he watches Combeferre goes through the notes and then Courfeyrac go over how they were working at the time. Then Enjolras takes the stage and his hand freezes around the bottle, and doesn’t move again until Enjolras steps aside to allow a comment from Joly.   
The meeting rolls on, drifting into a group discussion. Grantaire only notices Enjolras murmur something to Combeferre and leave because his eyes have hardly left him. Courfeyrac continues making his point, Bahorel continues signing and Combeferre continues making notes.   
Grantaire murmurs about getting another drink to Jehan and heads out to the corridor. There he bumps into a small child, of around 15. He had a mop of brown hair and dark black eyes that peered at him enquiringly.  
“I don’ know you.”   
“I could say the same to you, small child in the middle of a friend’s apartment.”  
“Are you Jehan’s friend?”  
“Grantaire, yes. And you are?”  
“Gavroche, Ep’s little brother. Nice ta finally meet you.” Gavroche holds out a hand and gives him a smile with crooked teeth.   
“I can see the likeness now.” Grantaire takes his hand to shake, the boys’ skin is chapped and rough, his fingers full of bones. Gavroche gives him another grin that is the exact spit of Eponine’s. “I’m just grabbing a drink…”  
“Kitchen’s on the left. When you come back you and I are going to have a chat.”   
“Uh… Sure.” Grantaire blinks and the boy chuckles, digging his hands into his pockets. He’s not sure whether to like Gavroche, or to be terrified of him. His senses are telling him a mix of the two. He takes the door to his left, finding it closed. Enjolras jumps as he opens it, spinning on his heels.  
“Grantaire? What are you doing here?”  
“I don’t know, getting a drink?” Grantaire moves toward the fridge in an attempt to look vaguely normal.  
“Did you follow me out?”   
“Yes, because I notice you leave the room at the same time each evening.” He says it with a hint of sarcasm cutting the edges of his words. “At first I thought it was you getting drinks, but then I notice you do it here too. Maybe a coincidence, calling a sick relative… Something like that.” He shrugs and Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him.   
“Habit.” His hands moves to his chest to rub it, frowning. Grantaire continues his dig for his drink. There’s a cough behind him, which then devolves into coughing fit. He glances back around.  
“Did you come out here to cough? What, are you afraid that if the members of your group, your friends, see that you can get ill they might think that you’re weak. The immortal Apollo falling to Earth like Icarus because his body proves to be less Godly than expected.” He turns away, raising his arms “’ Immortality: A toy which people cry for, And on their knees apply for, Dispute, contend and lie for, And if allowed Would be right proud Eternally to die for.’ And yet it lies in front of me and, it seems, can be touched by such mortal problems as the common cold. It’s incredible to see such a god walking among men, trying to change their ways when he should know them better. Trying to help despite-“  
He turns back around and finds himself face to face with a brown and white blur. Refocusing a pill bottle comes into view.  
“What..?”  
“I’m not immortal Grantaire.” He can’t stop staring at the bottle, at words that are so familiar he can see them when he closes his eyes.  
Retrovir.  
Zidovudine.  
“W-What…” He repeats the word again. Because it’s a joke, it’s a sick joke. Isn’t it? Because Enjolras, Enjolras the leader, the beautiful, delusional, passionate leader can’t be- He can’t be dying. Not like this. Not when he had a future. Not when he could do so much. “No…”  
“Grantaire?” Enjolras says softly.  
“No!” His voice bursts out of his throat and through his lips. His jaw shakes with the weight of emotion. He shakes his head. “No, no no no. You can’t…”  
“Didn’t Jehan tell you how we met?”  
“He never…”   
Grantaire stares a moment longer. He can hear his breathing, heavy and laboured in his lungs. His thoughts don’t slow. All he can see is hospital beds and needles and in the middle of it all Enjolras looks tired, defeated. And that scares him more than anything. Golden hair dulled and blue eyes darkened and flat.   
His head spins again and Enjolras looks like he might go to steady him.  
He flinches away from the too hot touch.  
“I-I’m leaving…”  
“Grantaire wait-“  
“I- I-I can’t look at you right now.” He stumbles back, pushing his hand over his face. When he turns away he staggers to the side like he’s drunk. At least if he was drunk he wouldn’t have to think about this. 

It takes him several attempts to figure out where home is. Jehan had walked him there, and he didn’t pay too much attention to their path. The air is close and muggy and sticks to his skin. He swallows and leans his head back to look up at the orange-grey sky.   
“Oh… Oh God…” His hand finds a wall and supports him there on shaky legs. It’s rough beneath his palm and does something to ground him. There’s a small flash of lights behind him as a car pulls to a gravelly stop. There’s a murmur of voices and the slamming of a door. The lights leave darkness in their wake.  
“Grantaire..?” Jehan’s voice is soft like feathers on the breeze. “Are you okay?” Grantaire doesn’t move, staring at the edge of the brick wall.  
“Do you remember the day I found out? About the HIV..?” Grantaire asks quietly, Jehan murmurs an agreement. “It was such a perfect day. All I wanted to do was just lie out in grass warmed by the sun and a goddamn high. The sky was this brilliant shade of blue and I could’ve watched the cut out clouds forever. They just didn’t seem real. But you told me to go a-and it turns out perfect things aren’t so perfect after all.” His voice breaks a little on the stony words. Jehan opens his mouth, goes to step forward, anything. “Why didn’t you tell me Enjolras has HIV?”  
“It wasn’t my secret to tell-“  
“Not how you met? How you got involved with this? You couldn’t have- Just-“ He presses his lips together “I think I’m going to be sick…” Jehan does move then, pushing his hair back off of his face, gently rubbing circles onto his back. Grantaire takes a few deep breaths, swallowing back the bile that threatens to rise every time he thinks of anything that’s Enjolras or the virus.   
“Your hair’s gotten long.” Jehan murmurs, pushing the curls back over his shoulders again. Grantaire allows a small shaking laugh to escape his lips; it sounds more like a sob.   
“How did you get here..?” He asks a moment later, feeling safer now.   
“Combeferre gave me a lift, when Enjolras came back and said he hadn’t seen you I realised you must have left. I assumed it was because of him…”  
“Did anyone else-“  
“No. I said I had to head off as well and that you’d gone on a head. Combeferre came out to check if I needed a lift. He’s kind of like that…”  
“Like what?” Grantaire asks warily.  
“Just nice, and he notices things. He won’t talk, I promise.” Jehan squeezes his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect Enjolras to well… Tell you. He hasn’t told any of his friends.”  
“It just feels like this-this is taking everything away from me. J- You and now Enjolras as well. You don’t deserve it. You have so much to give Jehan. Both of you. And I love you, and I really like him and every time that happens… Someone’s got something against me. Why does this happen? Me I can understand but not you. Not him.”  
“Not you either Grantaire. You don’t deserve it any more than Enjolras. I promise you.” Grantaire shakes his head, leaning into Jehan’s touch.  
“He’s…”  
“Remember what you said to me? Grantaire you said I was strong. Don’t you think Enjolras is strong too?” Grantaire lets out a sigh and closes his eyes.  
“I don’t think I’m strong.” It’s almost a whisper and at first he doesn’t think Jehan heard, missing the looks on his face and the movements of his lips. Jehan leans across after a moment, kissing his cheek.  
“If I say you’re the strongest person I know you won’t believe me. But I’m going to say it anyway, because I think it’s true. You are beautiful and talented and wonderful. And I know you’ve had your hard times but you are doing so well. Please don’t let this set you back. Not after this past month…” There’s a ghost of breath against his cheek. “I feel like I’ve got you back.”


	6. I Never Thought You'd Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras wakes up the next morning to a text.  
>  _‘What did you say to R?’_ Feuilly asks.  
>  Enjolras groans and rolls over to bury his head in the pillow. He doesn’t reply until an hour or so later.  
>  _‘Why would you think I said anything to him?’_  
>  _‘He left without Jehan. That never happens.’_ A pause _‘Besides which I asked Gavroche if he’d seen him and apparently he went to get a drink and promised to talk to him upon his return.’_  
>  _‘I didn’t say anything bad. I didn’t insult him or anything, not intentionally. He just left.’_  
>  He can almost see Feuilly’s face, and it’s disbelieving, his eyebrow raised. He sighs.  
>  _‘I’ll go and talk to him, if you think it would help.’_

He always thought, if he ever had to do this, he’d have a big speech prepared. That’s how he usually works, with grand gestures and big speeches. Instead he’s sitting in Combeferre’s sitting room, waiting for the other to finish cooking dinner, completely at a loss for words.  
Never mind the fact that he’s been in denial about this since he was 16 he doesn’t even know how to get the subject up in conversation.  
It’s not that he doesn’t think Combeferre will understand, or that he’ll react badly, but some part of him is still saying this is a bad idea. That this will mean that suddenly his sexuality is real, that he can’t go back on it.  
Combeferre calls him in to pour drinks and he realises his hands are shaking, the liquid pours in waves into the glasses. Combeferre glances around.  
“Are you okay?”  
“Fine.” His voice is too high, too forced.  
“You look like you’ve just heard something terrible.” He puts down the spoon. “Do you want to talk about anything?” The words remind him of what he knows, what he isn’t ready to say yet, and the whole reason he’s ended up here. Suddenly this seems smaller.  
He breathes in, runs his tongue over his lips and then speaks.  
“’Ferre… I’m gay.” The word is out and it feels sticky on his lips, hanging in the air between them. Combeferre looks at him for a moment, studying him. He half expects him to say ‘I know’ but he doesn’t.  
“How long have you known?”  
“I think I always did…” He says, truthfully. The more he thinks the more he can’t imagine not being like this. “I just never wanted to admit it to myself.”  
Combeferre gives him a smile and moves to pull him into a hug.  
“I’m happy you could tell me.” Enjolras smiles against the material of Combeferre’s shirt and hug his friend tightly.  
“Me too.”

~~~

Enjolras wakes up the next morning to a text.  
 _‘What did you say to R?’_ Feuilly asks.  
Enjolras groans and rolls over to bury his head in the pillow. He doesn’t reply until an hour or so later.  
 _‘Why would you think I said anything to him?’_  
 _‘He left without Jehan. That never happens.’_ A pause _‘Besides which I asked Gavroche if he’d seen him and apparently he went to get a drink and promised to talk to him upon his return.’_  
 _‘I didn’t say anything bad. I didn’t insult him or anything, not intentionally. He just left.’_  
He can almost see Feuilly’s face, and it’s disbelieving, his eyebrow raised. He sighs.  
 _‘I’ll go and talk to him, if you think it would help.’_

~~~

Grantaire looks less than impressed when Enjolras knocks on his door after work on Monday. His hair is long and scruffy as it falls over his face, his pale blue eyes are framed with bruise like circles and yet Enjolras still thinks they’re the most beautiful eyes he’s seen.  
An eyebrow is raised.  
“Yes?”  
“I think we need to talk.”  
“About what?”  
“For gods-“ He takes a deep breath. “Can I come in?” The hallway is cold and the clouds that have been threatening since Saturday morning had finally burst on his way over here, hi hair sticking uncomfortably to his face and neck. Grantaire contemplates it, chewing on his lips and his eyes are flickering nervously even if his body remains relaxed.  
“I guess.”  
“Thanks.” Enjolras heads past him as Grantaire stands aside. The flat is tiny and messy, but there’s a lack of furniture all the same. There’s a sofa and a coffee table and a mattress, a book shelf or two and that’s about it. The walls hold posters, but no family photos. The only photo he can see is one of a young Grantaire and Jehan, their arms around each other on what looks like fresher’s week.  
“I’m sorry.” Enjolras says, and then runs through the script again in his head. "I shouldn’t have jumped that on you like that. It was unfair of me. I should’ve...” He tries again. “I’ve never told anyone before, so I wasn’t sure how to do it. Then that just kind of happened. And I’m probably doing this wrong too but I’m sorry. It’s just not something I’ve had to do before.” He’s repeating himself, the words getting lost as they reach his lips. “Because you’re right, I don’t like people seeing me as weak. And I worry that if people found out that I uh- I had an illness, they wouldn’t look at me in the same way. And that they wouldn’t take me seriously anymore.”  
“Could never not take you seriously.” Grantaire murmurs, folding his arm.  
“What?”  
“I’m saying that’s a bullshit excuse Enjolras, and you know it!”  
How on Earth could you know how this feels? How you think or-“  
“Because I have HIV too!” Grantaire shouts it “And Jehan was the first person I told!”  
“Oh…” Enjolras breathes; Grantaire refuses to meet his eye, looking both surprised and terrified.  
“It’s not so nice to have jumped on you, is it?” Grantaire doesn’t say it snidely, it’s soft and whispering.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t. Please don’t.”  
“I’ve not seen you around.”  
“Meetings aren’t my thing.” He rubs his arm awkwardly. “It took a while before Jehan convinced me to go to yours.”  
“Can I ask how?” Enjolras murmurs after a moment of silence.  
“No.” Grantaire shakes his head. “Because you’ll think of me differently and I’m not ready for that to happen yet. And I don’t see the point in talking about my death.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I dwell on it enough in my own time.” Enjolras thinks he’s staring, his mouth opens but no noise escapes. “Don’t you?”  
“I try not to…”  
“Ever the optimist.”  
“I take you’re not.”  
“I used to think I was a realist, then I realised that was the one thing I was optimistic about.” Grantaire shrugs. “I thought you would have realised that.”  
“I thought you just liked arguing.” At this Grantaire lets out a small, sad laugh.  
“That may be part of it. And you can’t ask why that is either.”  
“I had fun.” Enjolras says and Grantaire turns to look at him, eyebrow raised. “When you taught- tried to teach me to dance.”  
“Me too.” Grantaire murmurs it like a secret.  
“Can we talk about this a bit more? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable but-“  
“Then don’t.”  
“I never imagined you were the friend Jehan mentioned when I first met him.”  
“Why?” Grantaire asks as he sits down, he still looks uncomfortable despite his seemingly relaxed posture.  
“I assumed they were dead… And I- I thought you were his boyfriend.” Grantaire blinks up at him a few times, laughter playing on his lips.  
“Oh! That… That was a long time ago. Jehan and I- Jehan’s my only friend; he was until I met your group anyway.”  
“But you seem so at home…”  
“I used to have a lot of friends, both of us. But we all kind of lost contact. You know, like you do.”  
“I didn’t have so many friends in school, I argued too much.” Enjolras smiles fondly. “Combeferre and Courfeyrac stuck by me though.”  
“You wanna sit down? You look really awkward standing there.”  
“If you don’t mind.”  
“I wouldn’t ask if I did.” Grantaire points out, gesturing to the sofa next to him. Enjolras perches on the worn out cording or the cushions. He thinks one of the springs is gone, it creaks as he sits. “I was wrong; you look even more awkward now.” Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Why did you tell me?”  
“I-“ Enjolras frowns “I don’t know… It just came out. It seemed right.”  
“Why? Why- Why did you have to have this?” Grantaire says suddenly.  
“Why do any of us have to have it? It’s no good asking why, it’s moving on.”  
“You say it like it’s so easy.”  
“For me it put everything into perspective, I got HIV because I slept with a woman to try and convince myself I wasn’t… I wasn’t gay. After my diagnosis suddenly that didn’t seem so big and scary.”  
“That was the only thing in my life that wasn’t scary.”  
“Really?”  
“Well, I guess it was until I was 16 maybe. I had Jehan though; we were always open about that sort of stuff.”  
“So you’re…”  
“Bi. Slightly more toward 6 than 3, if you want to be precise.” He smiles “Why? Are you interested?”  
Grantaire’s lips turn up further and he cocks his head slightly, looking more like the person Enjolras knows from meetings rather than the one he’s been conversing with. He feels a blush rising up his cheeks and he can’t quite bring himself to look away.  
Say something.  
“I-“  
“I’m kidding Apollo, no need to look so horrified.”  
“I wasn’t- Why don’t we support each other?”  
“Excuse me?”  
“I know you have Jehan, and I know this probably sounds insane to you but I want to be able to help you-“  
“I don’t need your help.”  
“Fine not help, just work together, rather than fighting all the time.”  
“So finding out I have an illness has made me go up in your books.”  
“That’s unfair Grantaire.” Grantaire glances away, not replying. “You may not think so but you mean something. You mean something to Jehan, to Feuilly. And you sure as hell mean something to me.” Grantaire fails to hide the flicker of surprise that crosses his face at Enjolras’ words. He stares and his eyes are wide and Enjolras is sure there’s fear in their icy depths. “You mean something.”  
“Yo-You’re-“  
“I’m not lying Grantaire. I’m really terrible at these things.” He pauses to press his lips together in thought “Okay, you make me unable to speak properly, which is new. And yet somehow I can’t help but argue with you, that flows so easily but I can’t do… This. This kind of talking.”  
“Do I make you nervous?” Grantaire’s voice sounds incredulous. Enjolras stares at the raised eyebrow and the gradually turning sarcastic lips. “Oh my god… Me. Little old me makes the great leader nervous. How’d I-“  
Enjolras isn’t sure how it happens but his lips are on Grantaires, swallowing the words he was about to say. Grantaire’s lips are rough and chapped, still against his own. Enjolras pulls back to find wide blue eyes.  
His mouth falls open.  
“Oh god!” His hand flies up to his mouth, Grantaire doesn’t move. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why- Combeferre said-“  
“Did you just kiss me?!”  
“I don’t think that’s really the question here.”  
“Wh-Why? Why did you kiss me?” His eyes jump again, to and fro from Enjolras. His fingers jump against his leg, panicky and erratic.  
“I just-“ Grantaire actually jumps up now.  
“No you didn’t just. You kissed me without any warning or any anything!”  
“Calm down.” Grantaire pauses a moment to stare, frowning in disbelief.  
“It doesn’t _work_ like that.”  
“I’m _sorry_.” Grantaire pushes his hand into his hair, taking a deep breath.  
“You mind if I smoke?”  
“It’s your house.” Enjolras thinks it best not to comment on the merits of avoiding cigarettes. Grantaire fishes around for a packet of cigarettes, turning over everything on the coffee table before he locates the lighter. He lights up, breathes a lungful of smoke deep into his lungs and visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping and his hands stilling ever so slightly.  
“Okay…” He says in a cloud of smoke, it curls from his lips with the word making it visible and it hangs there, waiting for something else to take its place. It spreads and grows as it waits.  
“I didn’t mean to- I’m not really good with… Feelings.”  
“Really?”  
“You don’t need to be sarcastic all the time Grantaire.”  
“I find it helps.” Grantaire says dryly.  
“Listen, I like you. There I said it. Maybe that’s why I told you, I don’t know. But I thought- I thought you were flirting with me.”  
“I was. That doesn’t mean you can kiss me without warning.”  
“I know, I know.” Enjolras glances down. “Have I screwed this up?”  
Grantaire’s quiet for a while, Enjolras doesn’t dare look at him. Eventually there’s a small sigh.  
“I don’t know. There’s a part of me say that I’m an idiot, because the guy I like is sitting here telling me he likes me and that should make me so… Happy. And I never thought that would happen, and to be honest I don’t know if I wanted it to happen. But I do, I do but… Every time this happens…”  
“Nothing bad I going to happen.” Enjolras murmurs. Grantaire shakes his head.  
“You can’t promise that Enjolras, you just can’t. Any more than you can promise a cure. And I know you’re going to think this sounds ridiculous.”  
“I don’t.”  
“You’re lying.” Grantaire takes another drag of his cigarette. Enjolras blinks.  
“You can’t just say I’m lying when you have no idea what I’m thinking-“  
“But I know you are, because no one thinks that paranoid pessimistic reasoning isn’t ridiculous in any way. Especially not overly optimistic idealists.”  
“Stop saying that like it’s an insult.”  
“See! This is what we do well!” Grantaire throws up his hands “We argue well. That’s how I know something will go wrong.”  
“Every couple argues!”  
“Every time they meet?”  
“You seem to go out of your way to argue with me anyway, you can hardly say a lot.” Grantaire chuckles darkly.  
“I had assumed it was the only way you’d notice me past civil hellos.”  
“Well you were wrong!” Enjolras’s voice rises as he stands. “Because all I’ve been able to do recently I notice you! Your face, your laugh, your smile, your goddamn hands, everything! I want to know you, learn about you and talk to you and just- I don’t know.”  
“You’re usually so eloquent.” Grantaire ashes his cigarette and smiles. “I might be able to do talking. Maybe. Just don’t spring things on me, alright?”  
“Does that include coffee?”  
“Now?” Grantaire’s laugh is quiet. “Well, I’ve got nothing else planned.”

~~~

Grantaire, as it turns out, has less knowledge of Paris than Enjolras had first thought. He murmurs something about sticking to the same places once he’s found one and takes Enjolras to a café that’s Jehan’s favourite rather than his own.  
It’s small and quaint, with an eclectic mix of chairs and flowers on the table. It smells like baking and old books, which line the walls beneath the small balcony section. Grantaire finds them a seat up the small spiral staircase where no one else is sitting, next to an old sofa with far too many fake-vintage cushions. Their table is out of the view of the main café, but Enjolras can just about see the few customers that come in, shaking their umbrellas.  
Grantaire cradles his coffee, black and steaming, between his hands. Enjolras’s is stronger, scalding his tongue as he sips it.  
“So,” He begins. “I know you don’t like talking about your past, so what do you want to talk about?”  
“I never said all my past. I might stretch to my parents, or my school life. Maybe…”  
“Okay, what are your parents like?”  
“Pretty standard, reasonably strict. I got my hair from my mother, which he was never thankful for. I didn’t inherit their mathematical and scientific minds however.”  
“Really?”  
“I far preferred humanities, philosophy and the arts. I devoted my time to reading and drawing rather than to equations.”  
“You draw?”  
“Out of practice. Your parents?”  
“Rich, as you said before. My mother works in tailoring, my father as a councillor in the local town. He was very pleased when I followed him into politics…” Grantaire smiles over his cup, the raises a hand.  
“If we’re doing parents than I’ll have to include Joleigh, Jehan’s mother. She was my second mother.”  
“What’s she like.”  
“Think Jehan, but female and more into dramatics rather than literature. She’s really great.” His smile is fonder now, as if she means more to him than his own parents. Enjolras decides to avoid questioning.  
“How’d you meet Jehan?”  
“We were seven; he’d just moved into my class and had just started growing his hair out. You probably know that Jehan can be pretty shy, so I bounded over and introduced myself. Best decision I ever made.”  
“You’re really close huh?”  
“Convinced me to move to Paris, persuaded me to go the doctors and came straight from work, even though he supposed to be allowed to close up early, when I got the news… And a whole lot of other stuff besides. Don’t let him say he doesn’t do anything because he’s far too humble.”  
“He talks about you in the same way.” Grantaire glances up, and there’s something like surprise on his face and clouding his eyes. His hand rests on the table. “May I?” Enjolras asks before he can protest his lack of being able to half of what Jehan does.  
“Hmm?” His eyes remain two steps behind, Enjolras nods to his hand. “Oh…” Enjolras turns his head slightly to the side, resting his hand opposite Grantaires. There’s a small smile and they both move at the same time, the tips of their fingers colliding.  
Grantaire laughs under his breath and there’s pink on his cheeks and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles.  
“Sorry.” They say together and this time Enjolras laughs as well. Jehan said once that he thought Grantaire was like a storm, wild and dark and now Enjolras knows what he means, the outburst from earlier seems like it never happened, though there’s still a hint of disbelief in their depths. His laugh drums and tinkles like falling rain, his teeth are slightly crooked beneath his pale lips.  
Enjolras moves this time to slot his fingers between Grantaire’s – they’re still cold despite the coffee – and just watches his face change he does so.  
Grantaire’s eyes watch their hands, a pale blue that Enjolras hasn’t pinpointed yet, it’s somewhere between a winters sky and ice, all contained by a ring of midnight. They’re partially covered by inky curls, though Grantaire pulled some of them back into a small pony tail before they headed out. There’s something tired in their depths, long guarded secrets weighing heavily. Yet, despite the dark circles and hooded lids there’s a shine as he tightens his fingers around Enjolras’s. His hands are cold, the knuckles stick out slightly more than his own and the tips of Grantaire’s fingers are rough against the back of his hands.  
“Why are your hands always so cold?” Enjolras murmurs. Grantaire jumps, looking up quickly.  
“I have poor circulation, something you evidently do not have going by how stupidly warm your hands are.” His teeth graze over his lips as he smiles and Enjolras doesn’t breathe for a moment.  
“That’s a fact you’re willing to share then.”  
“One of the few, I’ll give you another. I hate three things: Talking about myself.” He raises one finger, then another. “Having things sprung on me and being told to calm down when I’m panicking.” His fingers come back to rest on Enjolras’s hand. “But that kind of stems from the second. And I’m sure you realised those already.”  
The conversation shifts, away from personal information and family and on to anything that comes to mind, school subjects, Enjolras’ university life, their home towns. They occasionally shift toward the meetings and their differing political views and Grantaire’s lips turn up a little more to the right. Enjolras has so far diverted only one of those conversation strands.  
Grantaire’s thumb gently brushes along his own as they talk, dipping occasionally beneath the cuff of his shirt.  
When they leave the sky has cleared enough to show blue high above. A few steely clouds remain low on the horizon, sitting beneath the stripes of gold reflecting the sun. Their hands don’t part, save for pulling on their coats, but the wind bites. Enjolras pulls Grantaire’s hand into the oversized pocket of his coat and their arms brush. Grantaire jumps, just a little bit.  
The streets are quiet, just a few people hurrying to late starting jobs or nights out. Grantaire watches each with an interest Enjolras thinks come from the artist in him. Eventually Grantaire looks round to him.  
“Which way do you actually live, because at the moment we’re just walking.”  
“Is that a problem?” Grantaire turns his head slightly and smiles.  
“No, it’s not actually.” They stand a moment, Grantaire a couple of inches shorter than Enjolras. The smile doesn’t leave his lips even with the intensity of his look.  
“Can I kiss you?” Enjolras asks quietly.  
“Yeah.” It’s said in a breath and Grantaire’s free hand moves to cup his face as Enjolras brings their lips together. The kiss this time is sweeter, more tender. They move slowly, with each other and Grantaire tastes of coffee and cigarettes. Enjolras’s hand finds its way to his hip and Grantaire shifts to press himself just that little bit closer. When they break apart Grantaire’s eyes don’t leave his own, and Enjolras touches their foreheads together to try and ground himself.  
“That should have been our first kiss.”  
“I’m sure I can forget about the other... Attempt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of angst, a bit of fluff. This chapter really ran away with me. o.o


	7. I Guess I Misjudged Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a slow day.  
> Jehan’s had five customers come in, one collection, two browsers and two orders – one of which was purely a select and wrap. 
> 
> It’s then he gets the first text, it’s from Grantaire.  
>  _‘We need to talk._  
>  Soon.’  
> He pulls the bow tighter and picks up his phone.  
>  _‘I’ll make you dinner? How does 7 sound? X’_
> 
> Behind him the front door bell rings.  
> “You’re just in time.” He says, no looking round.  
> “For what?” The voice is smiling, but not the one he was expecting. He smiles as he turns to face Courfeyrac, who’s leaning over the counter on one elbow, a smirk playing at the left side of his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced/discovered abuse in the first section.  
> The rest is fluffy.

Grantaire turns up at Jehan’s door just past ten. Jehan punches in a final full stop before he gets up to check who’s there.  
“Hey…” Grantaire smiles, then winces as it tugs at a fresh cut beneath his eye. A drop of blood trickles down.  
“Jesus what happened to you?” Jehan stands aside to let him in. Grantaire gives him another small attempt at a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They remain flat and tired, the blue like stormy skies.  
“Bar fight… Should’ve seen the other guy.” He attempts a joke, Jehan doesn’t laugh.  
“Sit down, I’ll patch you up.”  
“You don’t have to-“  
“Some antiseptic, it looks nasty.” Grantaire sits on the sofa, staring at his hands. Jehan takes it as a yes, and goes to dig through his sparse first aid kit.  
When he comes back Grantaire hasn’t moved. He crouches in front of him and lifts his chin. “Was the guy wearing a ring?” He raises an eyebrow, picking up a damp flannel.  
“What are you doing?” Grantaire recoils from him.  
“Cleaning it.” Jehan raises his hand again.  
“You said antiseptic.”  
“It needs cleaning, have you looked at yourself?” He raises his hand again and Grantaire flinches. “Please.” Grantaire concedes, glancing down and he begins dabbing at the cut gently.  
He shifts the towel away and finds a purpling mark. He turns over the flannel and finds beige.  
“Is this make up?”  
Grantaire refuses to meet his eye.  
Jehan raises the cloth again and wipes away more of the make up at the jaw line. A yellow brown mark shades his jaw, and he finds another near his temple on the other side.  
“Roll up your sleeves.” He murmurs, staring at the marks. Grantaire swallows, chewing his lip before rolling up both of his sleeves. A pattern of fingerprints litter his forearms. “Are these from bar fights too?”  
Grantaire nods quickly, eyes not leaving the brownish marks.  
“Jesus Christ. He did this.”  
“No he-“  
“Then why were you hiding them?”  
“I didn’t want you to worry…”  
“God, at least if you were hiding them you must understand this is wrong!” Grantaire stands up quickly, balling his hands into fists. Jehan blinks up at him from the ground.  
“I hid them because I knew you wouldn’t understand!” Jehan’s breath shakes out in a laugh.  
“What the _hell_ is there for me to understand?!” Jehan’s voice is rising quickly; he stands a few inches shorter that his friend but Grantaire shrinks back.  
“He didn’t mean it…”  
“What however many time he did this, it was just a misunderstanding?!”  
“I was drunk… I got him riled up, I should’ve known better.”  
“This wasn’t your fault Grantaire. You know that.” Jehan murmurs softly, he doesn’t want to fight over this. Over anything, but especially not this.  
“He said he was sorry.” Grantaire’s lips waver in a smile. “He says he loves me.”  
“I love you Grantaire. And I would never do this to you.” Jehan reaches out to touch his un-marked cheek. Grantaire’s face falls suddenly, it crumples and breaks into two and the storm in his eyes wavers into rain.  
“I-It’s going to get better… H-He promised.” 

~~~

It’s been a slow day.  
Jehan’s had five customers come in, one collection, two browsers and two orders – one of which was purely a select and wrap.  
Bossuet’s texted several times making sure Jehan’s got the right flowers and that the two bouquets he ordered will be ready by the end of the day (In that sense Jehan’s glad it’s slow.) Joly’s texted him several times since lunch (He’s almost texted back the wrong man twice).  
He pulls out a measure of deep burgundy ribbon to tie around Musichetta’s bouquet over white lilies, pink orchids, phlox, amaryllis and deep red carnations. He examines it briefly, rearranging a little of the ivy so it flows over a little better and adds an extra hosta leaf to the back.  
It’s then he gets the first text, it’s from Grantaire.  
 _‘We need to talk._  
Soon.’  
He pulls the bow tighter and picks up his phone.  
 _‘I’ll make you dinner? How does 7 sound? X’_  
The phone crackles as it lands back on the cellophane.  
He begins on the second bouquet, a mix of yellows and oranges with its tall yellow tulips and orange roses, balanced with white bouvardia, phlox and myrtle. A few ferns curl out through it, a bright spark of the red chrysanthemum’s peeking through from the centre. He finishes off with a few bells of Ireland.  
He’s worked in the florists a couple of years now and he loves it, he loves the reasons behind the bouquets and the smell of the flowers and the way you can do so much with them. He loves seeing people’s faces when they get their corsages or arrangements and watching them browse. He also likes the time it gives him to watch, to write his poetry.  
The clouds that had been threatening have burst, and seem determined to never stop. Personally, Jehan doesn’t mind the rain, but it does cut down on the people passing by.  
 _‘It’s nothing bad’_ Grantaire adds as an afterthought. _‘Quite the opposite. X’_  
At that Jehan smiles, because it doesn’t really matter what the news is, Grantaire’s happy.  
 _‘You’d better give me all the details. X’_ He texts, before going back to arranging the flowers until the bouquet is to his satisfaction.  
 _‘When do I ever not? X’_  
Jehan ties on a burnt orange bow before he replies, turning the bouquet around on the counter to get a full view of it.  
Behind him the front door bell rings.  
“You’re just in time.” He says, no looking round.  
“For what?” The voice is smiling, but not the one he was expecting. He smiles as he turns to face Courfeyrac, who’s leaning over the counter on one elbow, a smirk playing at the left side of his lips.  
“What are you doing here?”  
“Not happy to see me?”  
“Surprised is the word you’re looking for.” He wipes his hands on his apron, pushing his hair back behind his ear. Courfeyrac’s eyes are like chocolate as they search over his face, Jehan feels a blush creeping up his neck. “What are you doing here anyway? Do you need a bunch of flowers for a hot date?”  
“Depends, is it frowned upon to buy flowers from the person you want to give them to?”  
An eyebrow is raised.  
“I think that I generally frowned upon yes, unless the person happens to have some lovely ox-eye daisies that just came in.”  
“I’ll allow the person to make that discretion.” Courf grins as Jehan goes about selecting the daisies, adding in a couple of marguerite’s and African daisies in with them. “Who are the bouquets for?”  
“Joly and Musichetta. Bossuet’s been texting all day to make sure they’ll be ready for dinner tonight.”  
“They’re the sweetest, beside Marius and Cosette – blushes non-withstanding.” Jehan smiles, wrapping the flowers.  
“What colour ribbon?”  
“Turquoise.” Courfeyrac replies quickly and Jehan glances round. Courfeyrac runs his hands through his dark curls, looking awkward for the first time. “Like his… eyes…”  
“That is the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.” Jehan tells him seriously, but he can’t help a smile as he ties the ribbon. He dampens it by the time he turns around to hand Courfeyrac the bouquet, ringing it up on the till.  
“Thank you, now I was wondering when you finished here?” Courfeyrac asks as he hands over his money.  
“Half an hour, will you be waiting?”  
“Is that allowed?”  
“Probably not, but I’ve done worse.” At this Courfeyrac grins, raising an eyebrow.  
“Oh really.”  
“Not like that.” Jehan bats at him. “You really should put those in some water.”  
“Oh! Right.” Jehan fills a bucket with water and places it on the counter for him. “How does coffee sound?”  
“Great actually.” Jehan leans on the counter.  
“Because I know this really great little place…”

Bossuet arrives quarter of an hour later. Courfeyrac is sitting on the counter, chatting avidly.  
Bossuet’s nice enough to only give them a knowing smile as he pays for the two bouquets, winking at Courfeyrac as he leaves. Jehan closes up as Courfeyrac waits under the dripping awning outside. He locks the door and turns to find a bunch of daisies under his nose. Courfeyrac bows, presenting him with the flowers.  
“For sir.”  
“Why! What a wonderful surprise!” Jehan smiles, leaning across to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.” It’s all very tongue in cheek, but Courfeyrac beams none the less. They set off down the street, the rain slowing to a drizzle as they hurry along. Jehan steps into the puddles as they go, the water splashing over his Doc Martins and a laugh escapes his lips.  
“The rain feels… Great.” He throws his head back with a grin.  
“You like the rain?”  
At this Jehan glances around.  
“It’s soothing, provided it’s not also blowing a gale. I’ve always loved it, going out for walks, barefoot across the grass. My mother despaired of me.”  
“I feel like somehow I should have guessed…” Courfeyrac chuckles. “I’ve been talking about nothing since I arrived, why don’t you tell me about you?”  
“Like what?”  
“I don’t know… Hobbies? Your birthday?”  
“29th of March.” Jehan states. “I don’t… I used to have a lot of hobbies, but most of them I haven’t done in a while. Like the jiving, Grantaire and I did that for fun one summer, but I’m really out of practice. I write poetry, sometimes short stories but not very often. I used to fence, pretty well actually, in school and Uni, with Grantaire too. Archery, briefly. I really like baking?” He smiles. “And Grantaire always used to tease me about being the languages nut at school…”  
“What languages do you know?” Jehan ponders it a moment.  
“French and English, obviously, I did Latin because I had an interest, Italian for the same reason. And some Irish, because one of my Grandparents was born there. And… conversational Greek and Hebrew? I can read more than I can speak.” He glances to Courfeyrac, who stares back.  
“I’m not sure if I’m impressed or scared.”  
At this Jehan chuckles quietly.  
“Languages were always my thing, for a really young age so… Well y’know. You must have known from a young age that you were in to theatre.”  
“I suppose… I think Mum has some terrible video of me in some local productions. Musicals were always my favourites, but I lack the ability to play leads in them… Karaoke I can do and few of the… easier pieces from musical theatre. But all the high end stuff, not a chance.”  
“Karaoke?”  
“Oh, you haven’t been to one of the infamous Les Amis Karaoke nights’ yet have you? Ooo I need to throw one.”  
“It’s a regular event?”  
“I make sure it is. Music is my other great passion, hence musical theatre I guess, and I enjoy nothing more than inviting people to mine and Marius’s apartment and making them sing. Or finding a bar karaoke night. You’d be surprised how good most of them are.” Jehan cocks his head to the side. “Bahorel is an amazing bass singer, though I’m still debating whether him or Chetta that’s best overall. And Bossuet’s pretty good too, even if he insists he’s not. Ep’s got a perfect ballad voice. Oh and Combeferre…”  
“Grantaire used to be really good too.”  
“I think this needs to happen.”  
“Hey, uh, if it does please don’t make Grantaire sing. He gets… Nervous about that and you can be pretty full on…”  
“Consider it done.” Courfeyrac ushers him into a small café and greets the girl behind the counter. “What do you want?”  
“An Earl Grey would be great.” Jehan smiles. “Thanks.”  
“Coffee isn’t you thing?”  
“I like the smell of coffee?” Courfeyrac laughs, turning back to the barista to place their order – he has a mocha himself. They find a table by the window, gazing out to the people hurrying home.  
“So, daisies are you favourite flower?” Courfeyrac asks, sipping his coffee. Jehan stir his tea before pouring out a cup.  
“I guess… I don’t really have favourite flower, I just love them. But I suppose yes, daisies are high up on the list. Grantaire always used to buy me snap dragons.” He smiles, leaning on his hand. He’d come home once to a note and a small bunch of snap dragons in a jug. ‘Sorry I can’t be here, I got called into work. I’ll make it up to you?’  
“You were together then?”  
“Yeah, but when we were nineteen. It was amicable, but you probably guessed that. Anyway, I probably shouldn’t be talking about this while I’m having coffee with you.”  
Courfeyrac fiddles with the cellophane of the flowers.  
“How long have you been working at the florists then?”  
“Three years or so. My last year of Uni.” Grantaire had just moved out. “My other job wasn’t quite making enough for rent, so I found that and fell in love.”  
“You must have been in my year, how on earth did I never meet you?” Courfeyrac rests his chin on his hand.  
“I did Literature. And you did..?”  
“Politics and theatre. It’s where I met Enjolras.”  
“Go on then, I’ve told you about me, tell me about you.” 

~~~

He’s slightly late, for which he blames a shift to the sofa, Courfeyrac’s arm around his shoulder and an extra pot of tea. Courfeyrac dropped him off outside his apartment, leaving him to hastily hurry up the three flights of stairs to where he’s sure Grantaire will be waiting – though punctuality isn’t Grantaire’s strong point the lure of good news was often enough to make him perfectly on time.  
Sure enough, when he reaches the top step, more than slightly out of breath and with what he is sure was a growing bruise from hi satchel, Grantaire is sitting against his door frame.  
“Jehan!” He jumps up rather more quickly than was usual.  
“Grantaire, sorry I’m late I-“  
“I have some news.” They say together, then laugh. Grantaire slings his arm around Jehan’s shoulder as he unlocks the door.  
“Do I take this has something to do with those flowers? And that remarkably cheesy ribbon?”  
“It might. But you go first.” Jehan says as he goes to find a vase and fill it with water. “You are after all the reason we’re here.”  
There’s a pause, and when he glances around Grantaire’s frowning as if he’s trying to find the words. Jehan leans on the counter.  
Eventually Grantaire gives a small smile.  
“I feel like drawing again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants a vague idea what Jehan and Courfeyrac look like, in this at least, Courf looks like Lou Gaillot only slightly more tanned and with curlier hair. Jehan looks like Jamie Campbell Bower in this shoot over here: http://www.interviewmagazine.com/film/jamie-campbell-bower#slideshow_54836.6   
> Only with like... long sandy blonde hair?  
> And to be typical, Grantaire is George Blagden...  
> This is only personal, and for my reference so, you know.


	8. Nobody Said it was Easy, No One Ever Said it Would be this Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, I’m not sure I can do this.” Grantaire stops dead in front of the door. He feels Jehan bump into his back with a small ‘oof’. His mind races for a moment and he can hear laughter and booming voices from behind the door, amplified.   
> Jehan places a hand on his shoulder.   
> “Do what?”  
> “Go in there and be… Couple-y with Enjolras.   
> "You can do this in your own time, you don’t have to push yourself. Talk to Enjolras, he’ll understand.”  
> “I wouldn’t.” Grantaire mutters.  
> “Talk to him.”

“This was a really bad plan.” Jehan murmurs, they keep walking but there’s a reluctant slowness to his movements. Grantaire takes the cigarette from between his teeth.  
“On the contrary, this is an excellent plan. You’ll see.” At this Jehan stops completely, glancing anxiously behind him. They’ve stopped twice already. The first followed the script of this one rather closely, the second was on the premise of buying cigarettes, though Jehan had only offered him one and hasn’t taken one for himself yet – bar when Grantaire’s offered up a drag of his.   
Jehan has a bowler hat of his head, and his hand goes to it every now and then, as if to run his fingers through his hair. It had taken a lot to get him to come out tonight, and even more to get him to dress in clothes he adores but is never brave enough to wear. Despite a mother who probably wouldn’t give a damn if he turned up in a mini skirt, Jehan’s ended up more insecure about his appearance. Grantaire knows he loves the bright skinny jeans and terrible jumpers and shirts and floral prints that take up half his wardrobe but he doesn’t dare wear them in front of people he knows.  
“I should change. I can’t-“  
“Jehan you look great. Come on, it’s your first legal pint – you’ve got to look your best.”  
“It’s not my first drink.”  
“First public, legal drink. Your birthday was months ago, it’s my duty as a friend to drag you out.”  
“No, it’s because you want an excuse to go out drinking.”  
“For your benefit.”  
“Sure.” Jehan smoothes the front of his shirt compulsively. Grantaire passes across his cigarette with a questioning tilt of his head. “Thanks.” Jehan takes a drag before crushing the butt beneath the toe of his docs.   
“Though I’m not sure about the lilac jeans.” Grantaire comments.  
“Are they too much? I could-“  
“The turquoise ones made your arse look better.” Jehan opens his mouth and raises an eyebrow, seeming speechless. Grantaire grins.  
“You have a boyfriend.” Jehan hits him on the arm.  
“Oh come on, it’s not like I’ve never said anything like that to you before.”  
“Beside the point. How are things going between you two?” Grantaire smiles fondly, digging his hands into his pockets.  
“Really great actually…”

~~~

“You know, I’m not sure I can do this.” Grantaire stops dead in front of the door. He feels Jehan bump into his back with a small ‘oof’. His mind races for a moment and he can hear laughter and booming voices from behind the door, amplified.   
Jehan places a hand on his shoulder.   
“Do what?”  
“Go in there and be… Couple-y with Enjolras.   
“Like you’re not couple-y normally.” He can feel Jehan’s disbelieving look.  
“He’s very… Touchy feely.” Enjolras is all about contact, hands, legs, as long as there’s something. Grantaire enjoys it, it grounds him somewhat, while simultaneously sending him spiralling into disbelief that this is actually happening.  
“So are you.”  
“But this is everyone else!”  
“They’re your friends Grantaire.” At this Grantaire turns, chewing his lip. He tastes blood.  
“But they’ll tease and talk and-“  
“Grantaire, look at me.” Jehan murmurs, giving his arms a gentle squeeze. “You can do this in your own time, you don’t have to push yourself. Talk to Enjolras, he’ll understand.”  
“I wouldn’t.” Grantaire mutters.  
“Talk to him.”  
He sighs and closes his eyes, leaning his forehead on Jehan’s shoulder.   
“Alright… Alright. It’s not so bad.”  
“If you prefer I can go straight in and sit on Courf’s lap.”   
He sometimes finds it hard to remember that Jehan can be painfully shy.  
“Don’t be obscene.” He can’t help but smile at Jehan’s wink.   
“Come on.” Jehan grins and pulls him inside. Grantaire takes his usual place next to Feuilly and Bahorel, ignoring Enjolras’ gaze as best he can. Jehan heads straight for the seat Courfeyrac’s saved, and Bossuet leans across to leer at the pair until Courfeyrac hits him and makes a remark about not being able to talk.   
‘Did Enjolras talk to you?’ Feuilly asks, passing the note across. Grantaire nods. ‘It’s good to have you back.’ Grantaire gives him a small smile and Feuilly pats his shoulder. ‘You didn’t miss much.’  
‘Only the chance to rile him up a little more, or shoot down another argument.’  
He’s sure Feuilly knows. He knows he knows _something_ , but he doesn’t make anything of it. For that he’s thankful. Feuilly grins at him, then goes to sign something to Bahorel.   
“How long have you two known each other?”  
“Since we were nine or so. Feuilly was the scrawny new kid.” Bahorel nudges his friend. Feuilly signs something at him. “I was determined to learn sign language so I could talk to him because no one else would. And yes, Feuilly is saying I looked very determined and delighted when he understood my very poor ‘hello’. But he looked equally as pleased so he can’t say much. We’ve lived together since we were 18, because someone has to keep an eye on this guy.” Feuilly opens his mouth in protest, then stops at the look Bahorel gives him. “He knows I tell the truth.” Feuilly folds his arms, pouting. Like this they look almost like brothers, teasing and batting at each other.  
Grantaire acts as normal as he can through the meeting, though his hand jumps against his knee. The glare Enjolras gives him every time he speaks up says the ploy might be working. Jehan glances across to him with worry in his eyes as another scathing remark leaves Grantaire’s lips.  
9 o’clock rolls around and Enjolras mutters about buying his round and shoves his chair back with such force Combeferre has to steady the papers on the table. A minute passes.  
“Oh! I forgot, I wanted to change my order.” Jehan’s hand flies to his mouth. “Grantaire, would you be a darling, you know my favourite drinks.”  
“Do it yourself.” Grantaire shoots him a look, Jehan shakes his head almost invisibly, then smiles sweetly.  
“And leave Courfeyrac all on his own? I wouldn’t dare.” Grantaire glares at him for a moment longer, knowing somehow he’s not getting out of this. Jehan keeps smiling.  
“Fine.” Grantaire gets up too quickly, all but storming up once he gets out of the door.   
Enjolras is by the bar, sipping a glass of water. Grantaire leans next to him.  
“One vodka.” Enjolras looks around like he’s just noticed him. He’s still staring, something dark in his eyes, when Grantaire puts down his shot glass that little bit too hard.  
“Grantaire, a word.” Enjolras nods toward the door, taking his arm. He’s pulled outside more than walking. As soon as they’re out the door Enjolras rounds on him. “What the hell was that?!”  
“Me, acting as I usually do in your meetings.”  
“No, no no no that was not how you usually act. That was something else entirely.” Grantaire doesn’t reply. “Are you ashamed of our relationship?”  
“No. I just- I don’t want to go straight into being like a couple with them around.”  
“You what?”  
“I don’t want them to find out. Not yet.”  
“Why? Because all I can get is that you don’t want to be seen with me!”  
“This isn’t like that at all! I- I can’t explain this to you!”  
“Try!” Enjolras throws up his hands and Grantaire flinches back with an instinct he thought he’d buried. Enjolras stares at him, frowning. “Did you-“  
“I never said I didn’t want to tell them-“ He says quickly.  
“Did you flinch?” Enjolras asks quietly.  
“Just not yet-“  
“You flinched Grantaire.”  
“I’m a jumpy person, I thought you’d noticed that.”  
“But why would you-“  
“Why do you feel the need to point it out?!” Grantaire’s voice rises and there’s an edge that he can’t place.  
“Because I’m concerned about why you’d flinch away from me.” Enjolras’ eyes are concerned, but there’s anger sparking somewhere in them.   
“Don’t.”   
“Why can’t you tell me, don’t you trust me?”  
“I’m allowed to have secrets Enjolras, just because we’re together doesn’t mean you have to know everything.”  
“But it isn’t just ‘everything’, it’s big things!”  
“I’m not talking about this now.” Grantaire shakes his head, and his voice shakes with it.   
“When.” It’s a syllable, it hangs between them heavily.  
“I don’t know.” He murmurs.   
“What about the… Relationship stuff, with our friends?”  
“I don’t- What do you want me to do? Be like Jehan and Courfeyrac?”  
“No- But currently you’re acting more like your Jehan’s boyfriend than mine.”  
“Jehan and I have always acted like that! That’s neither here nor there.” Grantaire pushes his fingers through his hair, catching on the knots. “What do you want from me?”  
“You could sit with me, if that’s not too much to ask.”  
“Don’t say that like that.”  
“I’m sorry. I just- I really like you. Really. You’re just-“  
“Difficult? I know.”  
“I wasn’t going to say that.” Grantaire raises an eyebrow.  
“Really? What were you going to say?”   
There’s a small sigh, Enjolras runs a hand over his face and it contorts.  
“You’re complicated. But you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t. So please, we don’t have to be all lovey dovey. Just… I haven’t seen you.” He shifts from toe to toe, he looks nervous and Grantaire’s brow furrows. “I could walk you home, after this? And then we can figure out telling people or something.”  
“You want to tell people?” The question is out of his mouth before he realises what he’s said. Enjolras’ head shoots up, his eyes slightly wider than they should be and he finds himself opening his mouth to protest.  
“You… You were scared I didn’t want to tell people? Wha- Why? Did you think I was stringing you along or, having fun? Do you think this is a mistake? To me?”   
He can’t reply, can’t say what he thinks, that telling people will make this real, and that real things can shatter and splinter into irreparable shards. That, too soon, Enjolras will find out how broken he is and leave. Because people always leave. That he’s scared, so scared, that Enjolras will wake up and turn around and just walk. That he won’t be there one day. That-  
“Grantaire..?” Enjolras murmurs quietly, and he suddenly seems very close and Grantaire can’t look at him, just can’t do this. “I’m not going anywhere…”   
“You will.” Is all he can say. Enjolras almost seems to step back, in some surprised reaction. Then he’s getting out his phone and texting someone. “What are you-“  
“Texting Combeferre, I’m going to walk you home and we don’t have to talk but…” He breaks off and goes back to his text.  
“They’ll know. If you do that they’ll know.” It comes out quicker than he’d intended, more hurried and panicked. Enjolras looks up from his phone, and his eyes are sad and searching and just so blue.   
“I’ve made you panic again, and I want to be able to help you this time.” A small step forward. “Let me help.” Grantaire’s fingers tap his leg and he brings them up to fold is arms around himself.  
“Okay…” He murmurs. “Let’s go back upstairs.”  
“But-“  
“Enjolras, let me do this. I’m fine.”  
“You just-“  
“I’m fine.” This time a smile comes to him by reflex, pulling up the corners of his lips. He can’t feel it reach his eyes. “They can’t survive without their drinks.”  
He enters the small upstairs room with a cry of ‘Your flipping drink Jehan, took forever.” And Jehan grins at him and kisses him on the cheek as he sits next to him. Enjolras is raising an eyebrow and murmuring something to Combeferre.   
They leave together with Jehan, waving him off outside his house. Enjolras takes his hand in a way that says it’s a question. Grantaire can’t feel the heat of his hands through his gloves, but he knows it’s there and he supposes, in some way, it comforts him.  
“How’d you do that?” Enjolras asks eventually.  
“What?”  
“Turn yourself around like that, you just were a different person.”  
“I used to act a lot.” Grantaire says eventually, staring straight ahead as he does. He thinks Enjolras is looking at him, but doesn’t dare look around to find out.  
“You acted?”  
“Yeah…” Acted fine, acted happy, acted sober. “I guess you could say that.”   
“I never knew that.”  
“You had no reason to really.” Grantaire points out. “Listen, you said you wanted to help, but I don’t think you have any idea how to do that. If I need help, I will ask.”  
“Really?”  
“I might ask.” Grantaire concedes. “And I will tell you how to help. Ask me how to help and I’ll tell you what to do.”  
“Okay, what if you’re panicking?”  
“Don’t touch me unless I say that you can, don’t ask me difficult questions like you did back there, and give me something to focus on, like you or my breathing or tapping out a tune or something. I don’t- I’m as bad now, I should be fine on my own.”  
“How long have you,” He pauses to try and find the words, it’s a stark contrast to his usual elegance. “Been panicky like that?”  
Grantaire sighs.   
“I never really used to, when I was younger I was pretty… Confident? I guess properly since I was 21, but since I was 18 or so if I look back.” Since he wasn’t sure what he could say that wouldn’t end up with an extra bruise on his chest, or another hissed word in a crowded bar that he had to smile through while the ball of anxiety sat heavily in his chest, where his heart had been. It stayed there a long time, until a needle made it bloom and unfurl, rushing blackly through his veins and into his lungs and his nerves until he’d been curled up on the tiled floor of some ‘friends’ bathroom, his hands pressed over his ears and his eyes wide and dry despite the tears he was sure he could feel on his face.   
He shakes his head sharply. He can feel Enjolras squeeze his fingers gently and he pulls him a little closer. Some part of him is screaming that this is a terrible idea, another part is feeling painfully alight, ablaze and alive, so much that he knuckles his free hand against his chest. He can hear his breathing and the cars on the road next to them and then his own voice, suddenly.  
“Do you want to come in?”  
“What?”  
“I-“ The laugh he lets out is breathy and slightly strangled because he can’t even comprehend what he just asked. How much of a big thing that is and why, why, why. “I don’t-“  
“Do you want me to?” Enjolras asks quietly.  
“I think so.”

~~~

He doesn’t sleep much that night, which isn’t really saying much. He’s continually and acutely aware of Enjolras’ breath against his shoulder and the dead weight of his arm over his stomach.   
He doesn’t dare move, dare breathe for fear of shattering the scene and waking up alone.  
The bed’s too small, they’re too close but yet, somehow, that’s soothing to him. The warmth, the presence of someone else, even as he tries not to think too much about who the someone else is.   
He wakes up to the smell of coffee he’d forgotten he had and the kettle whistling. The bed’s still slightly warm, the dent from where Enjolras had slept still visible and it takes him a moment to process.  
He sits up quickly, blood rushing to his head and clouding his eyes. The mattress creaks beneath him.  
Enjolras pokes his head around the dividing corner, his hair messy and golden in the early light.  
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to- My alarm went off and you didn’t wake up so I made coffee. Was that alright?”  
“I-“ He begins, then pinches his nose between his thumb and index finger. “I think I need to process this more before I can say what’s okay and what’s not.” There’s a smile.  
“Coffee’s ready, when you want some.” He manages to mumble his thanks before he flops back against the pillows. He can feel his heart beat in his ears and he’s far too aware of exactly how the sheets are bunched up around him, and how warm he is and how he hasn’t slept like that – once he got to sleep – in memory.   
He feels painfully alive, painfully lucid and yet a little like he’s dreaming, floating somewhere above himself as he shifts from the bed to the small kitchenette. He hangs back to watch Enjolras dig through the fridge. He doesn’t dare make a sound, and when Enjolras glances around with a small start and a smile, he doesn’t dare smile back, step closer, even touch him for fear of the scene vanishing like mist before him.  
“Morning.” Enjolras is wearing one of his t-shirts. His eyes are still slightly hooded by sleep and a dark dark blue. He takes a small step closer, and Grantaire doesn’t see the movement, but Enjolras’ hand is warm against his rough unshaven cheek. “Some one’s a little bit out of it.”  
“Y-You’re still here.” He’s leaning into the movement unconsciously, little bolts of lightning travelling down to his fingertips and raising Goosebumps down his spine. The smile Enjolras gives him would be beautiful, lips curved but un-parted, but it’s sad and the emotion ruins the effect.   
“Of course I am. I told you, I’m not leaving.” Grantaire can’t meet his eyes, staring down at their feet until Enjolras tilts his chin up and kisses him softly. He follows, just a little, as Enjolras pulls away, blinking slowly. Enjolras smiles.  
“Coffee!” He says, a little too hurriedly. There’s butterflies in his stomach and burning warmth in his chest and his hands are shaking, he’s surprised at how pleasant the sensations are and is, consequently, that little bit more nervous.   
“It’s disgusting coffee.” Enjolras is saying, passing across one of the mugs. Their fingers brush. A smile pulls at his lips involuntarily.  
“Are you surprised? You’re lucky I have any at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from The Scientist by Coldplay this time, seeing as I've run out of The Last Song, and there are many more songs that I have stuck in my head for this.
> 
> I hope I'm capturing Grantaire's feelings about relationships here, if not I'll try and explain them more.
> 
> Also Enjolras and Grantaire's angers are so different, they're both pretty short tempered but Grantaires either descends into panic or into slow burning anger, where as Enjolras's is expended pretty quickly even if it's very fiery to start with.
> 
> I also tried to explain Grantaire and Jehan's friendship a little more, from their teen years, because it's a lot different from how it is now.


	9. I Should Tell You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s odd, Jehan supposes, it being November 1st and him sitting at home on his own, watching crappy TV.  
> He and Grantaire haven’t spent a birthday apart since they met, even through drugs and illness and less than understanding partners. Grantaire even called twice already to make sure it was okay that Enjolras took him to dinner and that he promises he’ll be around tomorrow.  
> Courfeyrac doesn’t get off work until 11, filling in at a bar nearby. Not that Jehan’s entirely comfortable calling on him to remedy his loneliness.  
> It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Courfeyrac, but he’s terrified of becoming reliant on the little touches, the kisses on the cheek, and the smiles with warm brown eyes.  
> Because he can’t do that, can’t be that for Courfeyrac. He knows he can’t. Not like this.

New Year, 1999.  
Jehan waved his mother off at the train station this morning, Grantaire by his side calling a ‘Happy New Year’ after her as her train pulled away.  
New Year in Paris is far different from what he’s used to. His class mates had already invited him out to the Sacre Coeur Plaza to ring in the New Year, having spent Christmas Eve with and the week after with his mother and Grantaire in their flat.  
His fingers are cold in their gloves as he leans back, watching the sky above. (He still misses the clearer skies of the countryside around his home town). Grantaire’s just behind him, chatting to one of the students on his literature course. It had been a damp day, but the skies were at least trying to clear for the main event.  
He’ll admit, his friends have done well in choosing a spot. The backdrop of the Basilica is beautiful, only out done by the glowing lights of Paris in front.  
He glances around to look at Grantaire, who gives him one of the crooked smiles he hasn’t seen since spring. He can’t help but smile back, and watch as his friend laughs at some ones joke.  
Jehan thinks he might be recovering.  
There’s a moment of hush.  
Then everything is loud, so so loud and Jehan laughs a long with it.  
Grantaire’s hand finds his, dipping his fingers beneath the mitten part to twine their fingers together.  
“8!”  
Jehan glances around and smiles.  
The countdown continues. Grantaire’s smiling back. A blush creeps up to his cheeks, but his free hand is moving confidently to cup Grantaire’s face.  
The surprise only lasts a moment.  
“3!”  
“Why didn’t we do this before?” He whispers.  
Jehan doesn’t really ear the shouts of ‘Bonne année!’ as they erupt around them, the claps and cheers and hugs.  
Grantaire’s lips are dry, but they’re soft and warm and fit perfectly against his. One of his long fingered hands is in Jehan’s hair and the other pulls him that little bit closer.  
The first fire work makes them jump, falling apart and into the people surrounding them. Grantaire laughs, and pushes a hand through his hair, stepping closer again. His arm is around Jehan’s waist, and the other pushes a loose strand of hair behind his ear.  
He kisses Jehan’s cheek softly.  
“Bonne année.”

~~~

It’s odd, Jehan supposes, it being November 1st and him sitting at home on his own, watching crappy TV.  
He and Grantaire haven’t spent a birthday apart since they met, even through drugs and illness and less than understanding partners. Grantaire even called twice already to make sure it was okay that Enjolras took him to dinner and that he promises he’ll be around tomorrow.  
Courfeyrac doesn’t get off work until 11, filling in at a bar nearby. Not that Jehan’s entirely comfortable calling on him to remedy his loneliness.  
It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Courfeyrac, but he’s terrified of becoming reliant on the little touches, the kisses on the cheek, and the smiles with warm brown eyes.  
Because he can’t do that, can’t be that for Courfeyrac. He knows he can’t. Not like this.  
He can’t get close to him, only to have to hurt him further down the line by saying that he’s dying. He can’t put him through having to watch that as a boyfriend. He just can’t hurt him like that.  
So he has to hurt him in other ways.  
And that pains him more than he thought it could.  
He knows Courfeyrac will want sex, because that’s part of a healthy relationship isn’t it? It’s what he’s always done, he’s always like and now he’s too scared to even contemplate the thought.  
He’s certain that, after nearly a month of not-quite-dating, with him unconsciously distancing himself from anything that’s even vaguely ‘relationship’ and Courfeyrac refreshing the vase of flowers in the centre of his table, Courfeyrac should be expecting more.  
He would be, an invitation for a date, kisses down his neck and across his knuckles and his chest. Given how physical their relationship is in public, always touching, legs tangled together like their fingers, in private it sputters and fails. Jehan knows that’s his fault, with all his murmurs of ‘not tonight’ and ‘I have to go’ as soon as Courfeyrac’s fingers lift his shirt.  
He’s never been like that before. Ever.  
He’s always been the willing one, the one initiating and dominating.  
He thinks, somewhere, he’s scared of Courfeyrac ending up like him. Of him being the one who infects someone he cares about. And he knows they need to talk about it, but he’s not ready to think about that yet.  
Because it changes things, he know it changes things and knows it will change things been him and Courfeyrac. And he doesn’t want to see how they’ll change. Isn’t ready to see how they’ll change.  
Jehan pulls his blanket up around himself, resting his chin on his hands with a sigh.  
In the background the Friends theme tune stats up again.  
He’s past asking why, drifting slowly toward what ifs and hows.  
When the doorbell rings around half ten he expects to find a crooked smile and freckles, instead he finds the icy eyes and wild curls of Grantaire staring back at him.  
“I- Hey.” Grantaire smiles, and fold his arms over the un-buttoned waistcoat he’s wearing. “I felt bad that we didn’t get to see each other today.”  
“You were- With Enjolras.”  
“Uh huh, dinner was really nice. But I wanted to see you too.” Grantaire side steps inside. “Friends? Really? Should I be concerned?”  
“Not at all.” Jehan lies through his teeth. “I just needed some 90s TV to keep me company. How’re things with you and Enjolras?” Grantaire flops back onto the sofa and grins.  
“Really good, I’m less panicky than I was, I’m getting there with couple stuff. I might be ready to tell everyone some when… And we uh… We slept together…”  
“Really?”  
“Mhmmm. You’re going to laugh because he’s really… Well, dominant in bed.”  
“Do you have a thing for dominant people, or you just have a skill in finding them?”  
“I think it’s a skill. Then again he look surprised at himself when he did it, especially as he started off so sweetly…” Grantaire chuckles quietly. “But no, we worked together really well and he made sure I was okay and then I told him to shut up. And… You probably don’t want to hear this.”  
Jehan perches next to him, pulling the blanket around his shoulders.  
“It’s fine… You’re excited. I’m happy for you.”  
“But you’re not happy.” Grantaire glances around to him, frowning minutely “Is everything okay?”  
“Mhmm.”  
“With you and Courfeyrac?”  
“Great.” He forces a smile. Grantaire’s expression falters.  
“Tell me.”  
“It’s nothing.”  
“Jehan…” Grantaire reaches across to take his hand gently and Jehan can feel the smile slip from his face. He glances down.  
“He’s going to want sex isn’t he?”  
Grantaire exhales.  
“Oh.”  
“I mean it’s not that I don’t want to have sex with him, but what if I- What if I give him this? What if I hurt him and make him have to live through this too.”  
“Jehan…”  
“No, I mean it’s possible! Nothing effective really, not 100% and I can’t do that to him. I really- I care about him but I can’t be with him.” He can feel a stray tear escape the corner of his eye and he roughly wipes it away. “I can’t put him through that.”  
“Courfeyrac will understand, he’s not a bad guy.”  
“But he’s a fun guy. He’s not going to want the responsibility or the emotional baggage that comes with someone like me. I don’t want him to have that worry. And what if he- What if I can’t tell him or- He doesn’t listen? It’s alright for you with Enjolras.”  
Grantaire recoils just a little.  
“On Monday my boyfriend had to wake me up at 3 o’clock in the morning because I was crying in my sleep, because I dreamed he’d died.”  
“I didn’t mean-“ Jehan begins.  
“I know. You don’t want Courfeyrac in my position.”  
He nods silently, watching their hands as Grantaire runs his thumb along Jehan’s.  
“Maybe you should let him decide that for himself?”

~~~ 

Jehan’s fingers keep finding the four strand braid Grantaire had plaited into his hair that morning, sitting on the sofa behind him, deft fingers working through his strawberry blond waves. He could almost imagine they were 16 again, when Grantaire had made it his mission to learn a different braiding style each month to try of Jehan. It had been fun, watching as his skill improved and feeling his fingers running through his hair (Until he got a bright blue streak of paint through it.) They’d laughed, and chatted and Grantaire had kissed him on the cheek before holding up a mirror and putting on a far too posh accent.  
‘Does sir like?’  
‘It’s perfect.’  
Grantaire had taken him out for breakfast, then walked him through the cities various parks until they couldn’t quite feel their fingers. Then, laughing, he’d dragged him into a nearby café for hot chocolate and toasted sandwiches with cheese that escaped whenever you tried to take a bite.  
He smiles and rearranged the flowers in front of him again. It’s a primarily blue and purple construction, all hydrangeas and bachelors’ buttons and sweet peas. But Grantaire had said it looked really wonderful before he left.  
He’s finished the second of the two brides-maid bouquets by the time the bell rings at just before 5, setting them aside with the button holes and other brides-maid bouquet that had been finished by the shift before him.  
Courfeyrac leans over the counter to kiss him. Jehan places a finger on his lips.  
“I’m still technically working.” He smiles, coyly. Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, then pulls puppy dog eyes.  
“Can’t you break the rules for me?” He laughs quietly, reaching across to pull Courfeyrac closer by his tie.  
“Always.”  
“Did you have fun with R today?” Courfeyrac asks as the walk home together. Jehan glances round, surprised by the use of a nickname he hasn’t heard since he was 18.  
“R?”  
“Feuilly started calling Grantaire ‘R’.” Courfeyrac holds up two crossed fingers. “It kinda caught on… With Bahorel at least and I think I’ve caught it too.” He looks bashful, and Jehan can’t help but giggle quietly.  
“It was really nice, he chatted and went for a walk and we had fun.”  
“I’m glad to hear it, I was worried Enjolras was stealing him away.”  
“That could never happen.” Jehan smiles. “Like Feuilly and Bahorel or Enjolras and Combeferre. It just wouldn’t work.”  
They chat idly as they walk, arms linked together and hands in the others coat pockets.  
There’s a thought, sitting somewhere at the back of his mind like a dark cloud. As much as he tries to push it away it won’t quite leave.  
They reach the door of his flat, and Courfeyrac leans against the wall as Jehan opens the door.  
The thought lurks.  
The keys clink against the lock as his hands shake.  
“Hey, uh, Courfeyrac…”  
Nausea comes over him like a wave, a cold sweat.  
He gets the door open and presses his fingers against the wood to stop them trembling. He can hear his heart and his breathing.  
“Mmm?”  
“I-“  
He’s going to be sick. He swallows sharply.  
“I-It’s nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title lyrics from RENT.


	10. Said I Broke Your Heart, But it Hasn't Happened Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras touches his shoulder as he paces up and down the room behind him, or else tousles his hair in passing – just to annoy him.  
> It’s been two weeks since they announced their relationship to the group. There had been, as he feared, a loud, crude joke from Courfeyrac, but mainly there’d been pats on the back and a couple of ‘I knew its’.  
> Grantaire still sits with Feuilly and Bahorel, but now Enjolras is more relaxed about their relationship, more inclined to come and sit with them for the discussions.  
> Jehan is sitting on his other side at the moment, and every now and then Grantaire touches his hand gently, or Jehan leans across to rest his head on his shoulder.  
> He looks tired again, the weight of everything pulling at him and dragging his shoulders down. Grantaire’s been spending more many nights at his than at Enjolras’s and therefore hasn’t been home, except to pick up new clothes, in a couple of weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drug use at the beginning of the chapter.  
> Title from - Does this Mean You're Moving On by The Airborne Toxic Event

There’s a knock at the door. It’s sharp, and short and un-intrusive.  
“S-Shit.” The tourniquet drops from his arm as his mouth moves. His hands are still shaking, he needs this-  
The knock comes again and he knows it. He knows that knock.  
His hands scrabble to shove everything away, the water spills as he does so and it pools on the floor. He leaves it on the tiles, shoving his hands through his hair, shaking them out to stop the trembling that’s working into his ribs.  
“Jehan…” He smiles, tries to, as he opens the door. His boyfriend has one arm wrapped around him, he looks nervous as he usually does when he comes here.  
“Hey, I know I didn’t call but I was heading back from work and thought maybe you- Could I come in?”  
“I-“ He can’t think of an excuse quick enough, his brain slowing and deprived. “Sure…”  
“Thanks. So, how’ve you been? I-I’ve not seen you.”  
“I’ve been good, working at the bar, usual kind of stuff.”  
“Great.” There’s a smile again, but it’s not bright, his eyes remain flat. “I applied for a new job. It’s at a florist, and I really like the look of it.”  
“Oh! That’s great.” His nails dig into his palm. Jehan frowns.  
“Are you okay?”  
“Absolutely wonderful.”  
“You seem jumpy… Is there someone else here?”  
“Jehan I’d never do that to you-“ Grantaire takes a step forward, cupping Jehan’s face with hands that are calloused from use.  
“I know, it’s just you moved and then you’ve been busy… And I know something’s up but you won’t tell me what.” Jehan touches his hands. “You’re shaking.”  
“It’s nothing.” He says, it’s too quick, too jumpy. He can see Jehan’s thoughts as blue-green eyes search over his face.  
“You’ve gotten skinnier.”  
“I’ve been running around like a mad thing most nights. Doesn’t allow for the best schedule.”  
“I guess not… Do you want dinner?”  
“I- I can’t.” Jehan deflates a little.  
“Why not?”  
“Well I- I don’t feel great…”  
“Then let me stay, I can help out, make you something.” He begins pushing him towards the couch lightly. Grantaire places his hands on his shoulders.  
“I’m fine.”  
“Am I going to have to search your house to find from you’re hiding from me? Because you’re not you…” There’s genuine concern in his voice and deep in his eyes as they again begin scanning over his face. Then Jehan’s hands drop to his sides. “I don’t want to think it…”  
“Thank what?” Grantaire murmurs quietly.  
“All this hiding and being busy and- I trust you Grantaire, so I- I know you’re not sneaking around behind my back so…” Jehan pauses, his back to Grantaire. He’s staring at something, and as he crouches Grantaire’s own eyes find it. “W-What’s this?”  
The bag is tiny, his eyes are trained on it. His hand shakes.  
Jehan looks like he’s about to be sick. He moves slowly, taking Grantaire’s arm and rolling up his sleeve. The marks in the crook of his arm are dark and bruised, stark against his skin. Jehan’s fingers move slightly.  
“O-Oh…”  
“I’m sorry.” Is all he can say, because he is, not for being caught but for having a reason to be caught in the first place. Jehan shakes his head slightly.  
“How… How long?”  
“About 8 months…” He says and swallows sharply at the rising fear in his throat.  
“Shit…” Jehan breathes, dropping his arm back down to his side. “I Uh- I don’t think I can do this.”  
“Jehan-“  
“I can’t be with you when you’re like this.” Jehan’s voice cracks just slightly. Grantaire moves to touch his cheek. He flinches away. “I want to be there for you, because I love you, but I can’t do that as your boyfriend. Not now…”

~~~

Enjolras touches his shoulder as he paces up and down the room behind him, or else tousles his hair in passing – just to annoy him.  
It’s been two weeks since they announced their relationship to the group. There had been, as he feared, a loud, crude joke from Courfeyrac, but mainly there’d been pats on the back and a couple of ‘I knew its’.  
Grantaire still sits with Feuilly and Bahorel, but now Enjolras is more relaxed about their relationship, more inclined to come and sit with them for the discussions.  
Jehan is sitting on his other side at the moment, and every now and then Grantaire touches his hand gently, or Jehan leans across to rest his head on his shoulder.  
He looks tired again, the weight of everything pulling at him and dragging his shoulders down. Grantaire’s been spending more nights at his than at Enjolras’s and therefore hasn’t been home, except to pick up new clothes, in a couple of weeks.  
A tickle works its way to his throat again, and he takes a swig of drink to try and supress it. Again, the ploy doesn’t work and he turns away to cough dryly, each cough tearing its way through his lungs and wind pipe.  
He swallows, pushes a hand through his hair and sips his drink again. Jehan squeezes his hand.  
Joly leans across from where he and Bossuet have been chatting. He’s frowning.  
“You sound really wheezy Grantaire.” Grantaire lets out a small chuckle. “Do you think I could check that out? I mean you wouldn’t have to come to the hospital, just to mine. Just it could be asthma or-“  
“Relax Joly, it’s December, everyone has colds.” Grantaire smiles, trying to reassure him.  
“Still. You’re wheezing. It would put my mind at ease…”  
“R’s right Joly.” Bossuet pats his partner on the shoulder. “It’s probably just a chesty cough, most likely mine that I had last week. In which case I apologise.”  
“No worries, I was bound to catch something eventually.” Grantaire shrugs, though he’s sure it’s not Bossuet’s cold, he’s had a cough for a little while now. He’s been a little more tired than usually, but he’s been coughing. The only thing out of the ordinary is Enjolras’s comment of him feeling warm last night.  
“L’aigle always gets colds. If there’s something going round he’ll get it.” Joly’s saying. “Worries me to death sometimes.”  
‘Joly frets a lot. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you for a health check-up yet. He usually makes Enjolras go to one after every exam season.’ Feuilly grins at him.  
‘That’s because Enjolras is a workaholic with no sense of self preservation.’ Feuilly laughs along with him, until Grantaire breaks off in another stream of coughing. Jehan pats his back. Joly again frowns, digging in his bag for a couple tablets. He walks around the table to give them to Grantaire, placing a hand on his forehead.  
“I’m fine.” His voice comes out a little cracked.  
“You’re warm is what you are.”  
“I’ve just been coughing, of course I’m warm.”  
“You will go to the doctors won’t you? If your wheezing doesn’t get better?” Joly does look genuinely concerned, wringing his hands together. Grantaire shoots him a reassuring smile.  
“I’ll give you a call or something.”  
“I’ll make sure he does.” Jehan adds, leaning across. Joly nods and returns to his seat, murmuring to Bossuet as he sits down. Bossuet takes his hand gently, nodding and reassuring him. He seems placated by the time everyone gets up to leave, though he does mention Grantaire wearing a warmer coat in passing.  
Enjolras and Combeferre join him, Jehan, Feuilly and Bahorel on the way home. He and Enjolras walk with their arms wrapped around each other, trying to avoid the biting cold. Jehan and Combeferre are talking avidly about some topic or another, Grantaire suspects botany, while Bahorel occasionally attempts to keep up with signing along, giving up a couple of minutes in.  
When Enjolras and Combeferre leave them Enjolras pulls him in just that little bit too roughly, crushing their lips together in a kiss that takes his breath away. Combeferre coughs quietly, his eyebrow raised as they pull apart. Grantaire can only stare at Enjolras as he gives his hand a final squeeze and murmurs a good bye.  
“N-Night…” There’s a moment of silence, the Jehan bursts out into giggles. “What?”  
“You’re staring. My God you’ve got it bad.”  
“Oh hush you.” Grantaire ruffles Jehan’s hair as he passes. Jehan makes a small noise of protest.  
“You know I’m right. And, that was one hell of a kiss.” Jehan catches up with him, elbowing him the ribs.  
“I told you.” Grantaire smiles, touching his fingers to his lips gently. 

~~~

Grantaire makes Jehan eggs in baskets the next morning. As they eat Jehan recites impromptu poetry to him, about the painted skies outside their window.  
He leaves with a kiss on the cheek and the promise of returning later that evening to cook dinner together.  
He walks home in as the air around him is just beginning to warm, digging his hands deep into his pockets against the cold. The skies are as Jehan described, a pale blue with clouds swirling over their surface like water colours. He makes a note to paint it later.  
As he rounds the corner of the stairs in his block of flats he’s surprised to see a figure waiting for him, leaning nonchalantly against the wall.  
“Oh, hey!” He smiles, leaning up to give Enjolras a kiss on the cheek. His hair is pulled back off of his face in blond waves falling over his coat.  
“Hey.” Enjolras says, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Grantaire frowns. “Where’ve you been?”  
“At Jehan’s, where’d you think?”  
“You stayed over?”  
“Uh, yeah? Is- Is that a problem?”  
“No, well it’s just-“  
“Just?”  
“You’ve been over there a lot, almost…” Enjolras trails off, and it seems to light something inside Grantaire, a form of sparking anger that begins to build.  
“Go on.”  
“I haven’t seen you Grantaire.”  
“Well I’m sorry if Jehan needs a little support right now.” The words come out harsher than he intended, but he doesn’t stop. “Aren’t you the guy who met him through support group? Surely you should understand why I’ve been with him.”  
“But the way you act it’s like-“  
“The way we act?! We’ve always acted like that! You knew we acted like that from day one. For god’s sake, we were holding hands when he first introduced us!”  
“It’s like you’re with him!” The words burst out of Enjolras, Grantaire takes a step back words dripping with venom as he spits them.  
“What’s _that_ supposed to mean.” There’s no reply. “You think I’m cheating on you?”  
“You were with him before-“  
“You think I’m cheating on you. With the guy that’s dating your best friend. Have you told Courfeyrac?”  
“Don’t make this about friendship.”  
“You already did.” Grantaire hisses.  
“Well maybe you should think about it a bit more now you have a boyfriend.”  
“Well maybe you should realise my relationships aren’t going to change just because I’m with you.” He knows the words are wrong as soon as he says them, but he can’t drag them back from where they sit. Enjolras blinks.  
“ _Just_ because you’re with me?”  
“I didn’t mean-“ Grantaire tries but Enjolras cuts him off with a sharp ‘Really.’ Sparks again. “You know what? You’re being unreasonable, and that I could deal with because I know I’m not the easiest but-“  
“But?” Enjolras snaps when he doesn’t complete the sentence.  
“You’re being so jealous.”  
“I’m being jealous?!” Enjolras says incredulously, raising an eyebrow. His arms are folded.  
“Yes!” Grantaire flings his hands to the side from where they’ve been pushed into his hair.  
“Do you love him?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire turns back to face him, blinking.  
“Excuse me?”  
“Do you love him?”  
“What kind of a bullshit question is that?”  
“Answer it.” Grantaire stares at him.  
“Of course I do.” Enjolras tuts, as if he should have known. “I-I can’t deal with this.”  
“You can’t deal with it. You can’t have a discussion about this-“  
“This is a discussion? You’re yelling at me and accusing me of things you have no basis for-“  
“You’re hardly being mature about it.”  
“Mature?! Oh my god…” He presses his hands to his eyes. “Just- You’re being ridiculous.”  
“I’m being ridiculous because I don’t like the fact that you seem to be with your best friend.”  
“I’m not! That’s the point, you knew what our relationship was like!” He runs his hands over his face “You know what I really can’t do this now.”  
“So you’re just going to leave it there, and go back to your ‘friend’.” Grantaire stops dead.  
“Don’t say it like that.”  
“Like what?”  
“You know what? Fuck. You. I don’t have to stand here listening to this shit. I don’t have a problem with your friendships so stop picking at mine.”  
“My friendships are-“  
“Just shut up Enjolras!” He shouts it, and then is surprised by his own anger. It boils through his veins and clouds his mind. He sighs. “Just go.”  
“But-“  
“Get the _hell_ out of my house!” The anger spills again, catching in his throat and causing him to double over in a fit of coughs. Enjolras is half way down the stairs.  
“Get that bloody cold looked at!” He yells, it echoes through the stairwell and up to the higher floors. There’s no care there, no concern, just anger, like he’s an annoyance.  
Grantaire knows he’s an annoyance.  
He stares at his door, breathing heavily. His chest is tight, his ribs ache with each breath, each rise and fall, and his throat still tickles.  
Downstairs the door slams.  
He tries to collect his thoughts, to piece together the last few minutes. What had he said, why had he gotten so angry, so defensive? Why was Enjolras acting like this?  
He feels sick and shaky, his face warm and his head pounding.  
His breathing won’t slow.  
He can’t tell what’s nerves and what’s not anymore.  
He pushes himself away and down the stairs, the door slams for the second time.  
Grantaire just walks.  
He walks under the painted skies Jehan had described earlier, bumping into people as he goes. He murmurs an apology but he can’t- He rubs his eyes.  
He finds himself in a park, though he couldn’t tell you which one. His breath is still being pulled out of his lungs like a thick mass, sticking to him and pulling at him.  
He stops a moment, sways.  
The darkness is comforting.

~~~

‘Enjolras, it’s-it’s Joly. Grantaire- He’s been-‘


	11. Words Don't Come Easily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras can’t get the tone of Joly’s voice out of his head. He can’t even remember what was said to him, other than it involved Grantaire, but he can remember the panicked stammering of his friend, of their friend. And he knows Joly’s usually the most professional person you’ll ever meet while he’s working, and that makes it all the more terrifying.   
> He all but throws the money at the taxi driver with a murmur of ‘keep the change’, his legs burn as he hurries to the small reception area. Joly stands by the counter, he looks almost relieved to see Enjolras, but the emotion is gone in a moment, replaced by a reassuring, friendly demeanour.  
> “Enjolras you-“  
> “Where is he?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just warning for hospitals basically.  
> Title comes from Baby Can I Hold You by Tracy Chapman, which is currently my E/R theme song especially for this chapter and a couple previously.

“I’m going to change the world.” Enjolras announces, slamming the newspaper he’d been holding onto the table in front of Combeferre who, to his credit, doesn’t even jump.  
Combeferre can be infuriating like that.   
His eyes continue to follow the lines of text of the book he’s holding, stopping occasionally to highlight something or add an annotation.   
“How do you propose to do that?” He asks plainly. Combeferre, put of the pair of them, is the more level headed, more hopefully realistic and far less prone to outbursts and intense debate, shooting down the other persons argument rather than battling against it.  
“I- I’ll start a group.”  
“A group?”  
“In University, get people together, make people listen.”  
“As impressive as your powers of speech are Enjolras, I don’t think changing the world is going to be that simple.” Combeferre peels off a green index marker and smooths it onto the page.  
“But something has to change.” Enjolras’ palms are flat against the surface of the table, his hair flowing over his shoulder as he leans forward. Combeferre glances up at him.  
“I’m not denying that, I too have read newspapers.”  
“Then you know what I mean! There has to be something, people have to listen, the government has to listen.” Combeferre places his book down, straightens his glasses and laces his fingers together.  
“How are you going to make them listen?”   
Enjolras is slightly taken aback by the question, its abruptness.   
“I…” He suddenly feels very small, very young, very un-remarkable. And he knows that’s what Combeferre intended, to make him think about this properly and not just in one of his sheer blind determination type ways. It’s why they work so well together as a team.  
“I think you can do it Enjolras, I just want to know how.”  
“I’ll organise people, find likeminded students, non-students. I’ll make sure I- we can’t be ignored, through petitions or speeches or protests. I’ll go to debates, I’ll do anything to make sure these injustices,” He slams his hand down on the newspaper, loose paper shifting around him. “Are dealt with.”  
Combeferre smiles.  
“You’re getting there.”

~~~

Enjolras can’t get the tone of Joly’s voice out of his head. He can’t even remember what was said to him, other than it involved Grantaire, but he can remember the panicked stammering of his friend, of their friend. And he knows Joly’s usually the most professional person you’ll ever meet while he’s working, and that makes it all the more terrifying.   
He all but throws the money at the taxi driver with a murmur of ‘keep the change’, his legs burn as he hurries to the small reception area. Joly stands by the counter, he looks almost relieved to see Enjolras, but the emotion is gone in a moment, replaced by a reassuring, friendly demeanour.  
“Enjolras you-“  
“Where is he?”  
“He’s asleep. He uh- He passed out in one of the parks, a lady called an ambulance for him. He’s been unconscious mostly since.”  
“What’s wrong with him?” Enjolras asks, he’s breathing heavily and leans on the counter, eyes continually darting around to try and find where Grantaire is.  
“It’s pneumocystis pneumonia, or PCP. It’s a sort of fungal infection that isn’t really- It only really causes problems in people with immunodeficiency.” He pauses, looking down at his feet, as if unsure how to continue. “You are aware of Grantaire’s condition..?” He asks hesitantly.  
“Yes.”  
“Right. Well, good.” Joly nods. “It’s treatable, but it’s also serious. It would have been better for him to have… Gotten it checked out sooner.” His voice wavers on the last word, a momentary lapse in his professional exterior and Enjolras can see that ‘what if’ in his eyes.  
“He’s too stubborn. Could I see him..?”  
“Well, it’s not so simple… When he was awake they asked for a contact… He asked for Jehan.” Enjolras feels his stomach drop, a sudden feeling of slight nausea washing over him.  
“So you…”  
“I called you as a friend, not as a medical professional.” Enjolras breathes out a small ‘oh’, Joly reaches out to touch his arm gently. “You said he’s stubborn, that’s all he’s probably being now.” When Enjolras doesn’t reply he squeezes his arm gently. “Let me show you where he is.”  
Joly leads him further into the hospital, past wards and doors and patients and visitors. It all smells clinical, bleached and too bright. His head hurts.  
Joly rounds a corner and stops him.   
“He’s just down there, Jehan’s waiting outside. I’ve got to get back to work, but a Doctor’s in there and they should tell you everything that’s going on when they’re finished checking over him.” Joly pulls him into a hug and smiles. “I’ll see you later.”  
And then he’s left, in a large corridor that echoes with distant voices and crying babies. He takes a deep breath, the taste of bleach burning his throat and takes a step toward the figure sitting on the plastic chairs outside the room where Grantaire is.   
Jehan glances up at the movement, his hair is coming loose from its fish tail braid, like he’s been fiddling with it and it falls over his eyes.   
“They haven’t let me see him yet.” He says quietly. Enjolras takes a moment before opting to sit one seat away from him. “I’m going to take a guess and say you had a fight.” Enjolras starts.  
“How did you-“  
“He asked for me instead of you.” Jehan says simply, and he smiles sadly as he glances round to Enjolras.  
“You’re his best friend.” Enjolras says, a he realises suddenly how stupid his earlier point had been. How ridiculous the entire situation had been.  
“You’re his boyfriend. He really, really likes you.” A pause. “And I’m going to presume it was about me, so I’m sorry.”  
“It isn’t your-“  
“No, Enjolras, I’m sorry. Because I know how we act, and I know why that might be weird for you, even if Grantaire doesn’t.” Enjolras doesn’t reply. Jehan inhales like he’s debating over something. Eventually he breaks the silence. “Enjolras, I’m going to tell you something and you can’t tell anyone else, even Grantaire.”  
“Why-“  
“Promise me.” Jehan says intently, emphasising every syllable. Enjolras is taken aback, it takes him a moment to get out an ‘I promise.’  
“Okay… Good. Grantaire and I met each other when we were very young, you know that. Uh… It became very apparent he wasn’t going to be a normal friend.” Jehan takes a moment to formulate his words, staring at his hands. “Grantaire’s parents weren’t… Abusive or neglectful. They were excellent at the ins and outs of parenting, the day to day stuff if you would. But they didn’t love him.” A sigh. “Well, they might have done, I’m not sure. My point is they didn’t show it. There were no goodbye kisses, no holding hands, no celebratory hugs or anything that’s ‘normal’ in a parent-child relationship. I because a… Surrogate for that I suppose. I didn’t mind, it was nice to have someone like that. So it was never really a problem, as such, when we were kids. And when we became teenagers it continued like that. Everyone sort of realised that was how we were, and Grantaire stood up to them if they weren’t so accepting. There was just one problem.”  
“What was that?” Enjolras asks quietly, when Jehan doesn’t continue.  
“Grantaire, because he never felt properly loved at home was desperate for that kind of affection. He accepted any love he could, and believed that ‘I love you’ was the greatest thing, the ultimate affection no matter what else was-“ He cuts himself off and starts again. “Grantaire tried so hard to please people that could never be pleased, and he continued to do so and it hurt him. He placed his love n anyone who’d say ‘I love you’ back and it was often misplaced.”   
Enjolras isn’t sure what to say, or quite what Jehan’s implying.   
“I don’t think Grantaire’s misplaced his love in you.” Jehan murmurs. “But the second I do, I won’t hesitate to get him away from here.”  
“You’d do that?”  
“I’ve done it before.” Jehan says quietly.  
“You’d leave everything? Your job, your friends. Even Courfeyrac?”   
Jehan smiles sadly.  
“Even Courfeyrac.”  
“I-“  
“You have a big group of close friends Enjolras, people you can talk to about anything. So it’s probably hard to understand but Grantaire and I only have each other. He’s been really good to me these past couple of weeks, and I imagine he’s probably not even thought about how that seems to you. I’ll try not to steal him away too much, but he can be hard to tell no when he thinks he needs to be there…”  
“You needed him, I was just being… jealous.”  
“He’s just never really… We’ve never to think about how we act because everything’s been flings or… Yeah.” Jehan lifts one shoulder, looking slightly embarrassed.   
The Doctor comes out of the room, shutting the door with a small click. She’s tall, with hair pulled back in braids at the nape of her neck. Enjolras and Jehan both stand up automatically.   
“Which one of you is the contact?” She asks.  
“He is.” Jehan replies quickly, gesturing to Enjolras. “I’m just here for emotional support, as such.” Enjolras blinks at Jehan for a moment. The Doctor extends her hand, her dark skin like chocolate.   
“Dr. Baudin. Your friend’s still sleeping at the moment. But he’s better than he was, and he can breathe on his own. Would you like to see him?”  
“That would be… I-“ Enjolras can’t quite bring the words together. Dr. Baudin has a kind smile. She leads him into the room and offers him a chair.   
“I’ll be nearby, if you need anything.”  
“Thank you…” Enjolras looks round to Grantaire for the first time. He looks small, pale. There’s an IV drip in his right arm, his left arm folded across his chest, faint scars just about show on the skin. His face is turned away, but he looks peaceful, his dark hair curling across the pillow. Enjolras sits, lacing his fingers together.  
“I- I’m so sorry… I never should have said all those things, it was stupid and now you’re… And all I can think is will I get to say sorry. I know that’s stupid. I can hear you telling me it’s stupid right now… But I just-“ He pushes his hand into his hair. “I can’t stop thinking it…”  
“Never thought you’d be the pessimistic one…” Grantaire’s voice is hoarse, it cracks and is almost silent but it still makes Enjolras jump.  
“I-“  
“You didn’t think I’d let you have last word did you?” Grantaire’s voice rasps out of his throat, strained.   
“Grantaire! I- I’m so sorry. I- You’re okay… I’m really, I was out of line.” His words come out in a rush, tripping over each other for dominance until he presses his lips shut.  
“Yes, you were.” Grantaire says, and Enjolras glances down. “But then I thought, and even though you were, you were out of line because I hadn’t explained anything to you. And that was wrong of me.”  
“It’s was-“  
“No, let me talk.” Grantaire sighs quietly. “I, I told you Jehan was the one who person who persuaded me to move here, but I never said why I needed persuading. So let’s start with that… Enjolras I-“ He starts again. “When I was 18 I got involved with a guy, in a, an abusive relationship. He said he loved me…”  
“Oh…” Suddenly Jehan’s words make sense to him, and he sits back down in his seat with a thump.   
“He said he was sorry, and that it would get better, all that stuff. So I hid it, from Jehan and everyone for nearly 9 months.” His hand goes to his cheek, to the small scar beneath his eye. “He uh, did that to me one night, and all I needed was someone to hold me so I went to Jehan’s telling him I’d been in a bar fight, all that shit. Then he washed away the makeup and found the bruises. Now I’m glad he did but at the time I couldn’t leave, didn’t want to leave. But you can’t say no to Jehan, and after we moved here I didn’t ever see the guy again, I have no idea where he is or anything. But- Well Jehan and I got together that New Year and everything was really perfect. We were best friends, and getting together seemed like a logical step really. It was- So, so good but I couldn’t stop seeing this guy everywhere. Every face, every shadow every voice on the bus or the metro. It was driving me insane. I just couldn’t escape so I- I-“ He breaks off, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t. Ju-Just talk to me or something, ask me about it. I can’t just talk like I am now.”  
“I- Uh. Did you ever have other secrets that you didn’t tell Jehan?”   
“Yes.”  
“The things you can’t tell me now?”  
“Some of them.”  
“Why did you tell him, in the end?”  
“Because it’s hard to keep a heroin addiction hidden.” Grantaire says eventually, and it’s flat and mundane despite the weight of his words. Enjolras can feel the wind being knocked out of him.  
“I- Uh-“ Is all he can get out  
“I’m sorry, I needed to tell you better than that…” Grantaire buries his face in his hands. “I just-“  
“You had an addiction?” There’s a small nod.  
“Nearly 3 years… I- It helped, to start with, then it just took over completely and Jehan found out and then, the panic started. I, I used a dirty needle.” He murmurs, touching his arm. “But it was winter you know. I thought I had the flu, my immune system had never been that good. Then around December I dropped a lot of weight, and it really scared Jehan, he persuaded me to go to the doctors and they suggested the blood test, you know the drill. At the time HIV was never a concern, I was more worried about them finding illegal opiates in my blood stream. I couldn’t continue with them after I got the diagnoses…”  
“Do you still, feel the need to use them?”  
“Yes. Sometimes. But I try to remind myself that the high is never worth all this.”  
“Oh.” Enjolras breathes. Grantaire closes his eyes tightly.  
“Jehan and I… We broke up because of my addiction. The night he found out he told me he couldn’t be with me, but he still wanted to support me as a friend. I thought for ages that we could get back together, but it took me three years before I could even contemplate coming off drugs and it wasn’t fair to make him wait like that. He couldn’t wait like that… Now I’m just trying to repay him…”  
“He couldn’t have a better friend.” Enjolras murmurs and Grantaire shakes his head, running his hand over his face.  
“I couldn’t tell you because I knew you’d never look at me in the same way again. And I didn’t want to lose anything we had, even before we were dating. But I can’t keep secrets like that, because it’s not fair on you…”  
“Grantaire, I just need some time but this isn’t going to change anything.” Enjolras reaches across to take his hand gently. “It’s just a lot to take in.”  
“It’s a lot to tell too…” Grantaire lets out a small cough, automatically sitting up as he does so. Enjolras goes to steady him. “I’m fine…” He smiles weakly.  
“You have pneumonia.”  
“That would explain why I’m feeling so crap.” Grantaire tries to joke as he lies back against the pillows. “How did you find out I was here?”  
“Joly called.”  
“Shit, is he freaking out? He told me to get this looked at and well…”  
“I think he’s more reassured now you’re in hospital.” Enjolras admits, sitting on the bed next to Grantaire. He reaches out instinctively to push his hair back off of his boyfriends face. Grantaire’s blue eyes follow his expression with concern in their depths. “I’m not leaving.” He murmurs with a small smile. Grantaire visibly relaxes back into his pillow, closing his eyes for a moment. Enjolras continues to stroke his hand.  
After a minute or so Grantaire speaks.  
“If Joly was working, with me… Does he know?”  
“Yes.” Enjolras tells him quietly. Grantaire’s closed eyes scrunch up a little.  
“Oh…”  
“He won’t tell anyone else.”  
“I know. I just-“ Grantaire swallows his Adams apple bobbing. “I feel like I should.”  
“You don’t have to-“  
“I’m lying to everyone… And they’re going to be worried because don’t end up hospitalised for pneumonia without having something wrong with them.” His takes a shaky breath. “Joly shouldn’t be the only one to have to know.”

 

~~~

It takes a couple of days before Dr. Baudin agrees to let Grantaire have more than two guests. Enjolras has spent most of those two days by Grantaire’s bedside, relieved occasionally by Jehan and with Joly’s promise of checking in on Grantaire when visitors’ hours close.  
Jehan is in with Grantaire when everyone arrives, bearing various gifts of chocolate, a couple of bunches of flowers, a balloon and a teddy bear from Courfeyrac.   
“How’s he been?” Combeferre asks.  
“Bored out of his mind.” Enjolras smiles. “Jehan brought him a sketchpad yesterday though, so that improved things slightly. He’d sent half the afternoon posing for a pencil sketch Grantaire was determined to make of him. “He’s feeling a lot better though.”  
“Hard to feel worse than passing out in a park from not being able to breathe.” Bahorel points out. The balloon attached to his wrist bobs as he signs. Jehan pokes his head around the door, looking genuinely surprised by the crowd.  
“Oh! I thought I heard voices, I didn’t realise you were all here. You want to come in?”  
Enjolras takes up a seat on Grantaire’s bed as everyone files in. There are smiles and kisses on the cheek and laughs from Grantaire as Bossuet makes a joke Enjolras doesn’t hear.  
They settle quickly, leaning against various walls and cabinets. Jehan finds some water for the flowers.  
“Wow, I didn’t realise I was so popular.” Grantaire laughs, it’s nervous and slightly shaky. Enjolras can feel it trembling in his hands as he takes them. “Thanks for relieving my boredom a little…”  
“We’re friends, what else are we for?” Courfeyrac is perched on a chair, near Jehan and the flowers.  
Grantaire looks around for a moment, the smile slipping from his face.  
“I’m… I’m going to have to kill the mood a little here…”   
The atmosphere changes instantly, brows furrowing and worry making its way into people’s eyes.  
“What’s wrong?” Marius asks finally, taking Cosette’s hand as he does so. Grantaire takes a deep breath.  
“I…” His jaw shakes just a little, Enjolras squeezes his hand. “I have HIV.” He says eventually. Bahorel’s hands falter from where he’s been signing the conversation, falling to his sides. Courfeyrac stares at the floor. Musichetta has brought her hands to her mouth as if she’s praying. Grantaire looks down at his and Enjolras’ clasped hands.  
“Did you just find out?” Combeferre asks eventually, breaking the stifling silence. Grantaire shakes his head.  
“It’s been just over 2 years now… Give or take. I’m sorry I never told you.”  
There’s a collective murmur, a shaking of heads.  
“You didn’t need to until you were comfortable. And I’m glad you’re relaxed enough with us to tell us now.”  
“Did you know?” Courfeyrac asks Enjolras.  
“I’ve known a long time… Because-“ He pauses. Grantaire had told him yesterday that he didn’t have to say anything, it was just something he needed to do. But now he’s here Enjolras knows he needs to do it too. “I’m HIV positive too.”  
The silence weighs heavier on them. Jehan focusses on the flowers just a little bit more. Joly’s previously blank face has gone a shade of grey.  
“Shit…” Bossuet says softly.  
“Did you-“ Joly’s voice is quiet, he doesn’t complete his sentence but his eyes flicker between the two of them.  
“No! No, no. I’ve been positive for longer than I’ve known Grantaire.” He glances at Combeferre, chewing his lip. “The day I came out to you…”  
“That was why you locked yourself away…” Combeferre breathes, realisation dawning on his face. “Oh…”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Why couldn’t you tell me?” Combeferre asks, it’s not an accusation or angry but there’s a hint of betrayal in his soft tone.  
“I thought you’d all see me as a weak leader…” Enjolras admits to his hands.  
“All this time you- You think that would affect how we view you?”  
“You’re an idiot. You’re both idiots.” Bahorel mutters.  
“We’re your friends. We’re not going to act weird or like you’re dangerous or something. We want to support you. Being ill doesn’t make you weak, or any less of a person or… Anything. It happens. We all get sick and I know it’s not the same but you’ve never seen us a different when we’ve been ill have you? When Courfeyrac got the flu that one time you never saw him as weak did you Enjolras?”  
“No.” Enjolras murmurs.  
“So why did you think we’d see you any differently? You’re strong, we know that. We know both of you are strong because we’ve seen it, and now we know why you’ve had to be so strong.” Combeferre draws his arms around himself.   
“I’m really sorry I couldn’t tell you before now.” If he couldn’t feel Grantaire’s hand in his own Enjolras would have sworn he and Combeferre were the only two people in the room. Combeferre shakes his head with a smile.  
“It’s a big thing, if you’d us sooner you would have been uncomfortable. We’re just glad you could tell us at all.” There’s a collective series of nods and reassuring smiles and Joly goes to check on Grantaire as he relaxes back against the pillows. Combeferre squeezes his shoulder.  
The air in the room is still heavy, the jokes still feel forced to an extent, but Enjolras feels a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders all the same.   
He kisses Grantaire’s forehead gently, and the other gives him a tired smile.   
“I’m proud of you.”   
“I only told the truth.” Grantaire says.  
“It was a big step, even if you don’t think it’s worth praise.”   
Grantaire, he’s noticed, never thinks anything of his is worth praise. Praise does not boost him as it does others, rather is scares him. It shows in flashes in his eyes that he doesn’t think anyone sees, even as he passes the comment off with a lazy joke or remark. Enjolras has, over time, learnt to avoid this kind of praise. From the first time Grantaire physically blocked his ears with a childish ‘lalala’ when he’d stumbled upon him painting and said it was the best he’d seen, and then realised that the childlike ‘not listening’ was anything but joking. Or the time Grantaire had left his apartment with the slamming of a door, and, after Enjolras had calmed himself had found him sat with his head in his hands on the steps outside the building.   
He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand it, but he learns, modifies anyway.   
Grantaire shakes his head again, pressing his lips together and Enjolras gives him a quick kiss.   
“Should I tell everyone else to leave so you can get some rest?”  
“I’m alright. Joly’ll scare them off sometime anyway I’m sure. Besides, they’ve all come down here to see me. I can’t tell them that and then tell them to leave.”  
Grantaire drifts off to sleep anyway, about 20 minutes or so later after he’s finished talking to Bossuet and Musichetta, and finished grinning with Bahorel and Feuilly trying to act like nothing’s changed, and finished explaining to Combeferre. He looks peaceful, his mouth slightly slack, his scarred arm curls across his chest protectively all the same.  
The others tip toe out, with murmurs of goodbye. Jehan goes to say goodbye to Courfeyrac. Combeferre lingers back.   
“I feel like I’ve… Betrayed you and lied to you.” Enjolras murmurs as he leans against the wall near the door. Combeferre shakes his head.  
“It hurt a little that you couldn’t tell me sooner, but if I was in your situation I’d be scared too. Now you don’t have to be scared alone.”   
“Am I still going to be able to change everything?” Enjolras asks, the question’s been sitting in his mind, lurking in the darkness right at the back of his thoughts, almost since his diagnoses.   
Combeferre smiles.  
“Of course you will. It’s you Enjolras, if someone can change things it’ll be you.”


	12. What Will it Take to Make or Break This Hint of Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac, as a rule, is the fun one. Bahorel is the loud one, Bossuet is the funny one but Courfeyrac is the fun one. The flirty one, the partying one, the energetic, cuddly, infuriating-but-everyone-loves-him one.  
> As part of this rule he never gets emotionally involved with anyone.  
> His friends, certainly. But never anyone else, not partners or one night stands or dates.  
> And yet he’s found himself staring, physically unable to take his eyes off of Jehan’s slight figure as he braces his hands against the table and puts forward his argument. His hair is braided, as usual, and he’s sure Grantaire must have done it while Jehan was visiting as it’s a complex many stranded braid that frames his face just so and flows over his shoulder in a way only an artist could achieve.

There’s a book slammed on the table in front of him, causing the papers around his to rustle and the one he’d been writing on to whoosh away and float slowly down to the floor. He follows it with his eyes before look across at the book. It’s old, a look inherently like it’s been written by old, long dead, white men. The hand, still spread out on top of it, that slammed it down leads up to a red clothed arm, and then a vaguely familiar face.  
“You’re… In my Politics class?” He guesses, and then takes a moment.  
The face is determined, youthful all the same, and feminine it it’s angles and edges and full, shaped lips. It holds a set of deep blue eyes and is framed it its entirety by wavy blond hair pulled back into a pony tail.  
He remembers this face, it’s the face of the guy he flirted with in fresher’s week in that absolutely far too up-market for poor students bar. It’s the guy who flatly rejected his offer of a drink, and whose equally attractive friend found the whole thing rather too amusing. It’s the guy he then found out was in his class, and set about trying to avoid as discreetly as possible.  
And yet, after 3 months it has all come to nothing because here he is, in the flesh, and looking far too determined for his liking.  
“It’s… Enjolras?” He tries and there’s a nod. “I’m Courfeyrac.” He goes to hold out a hand.  
“I know.”  
“Great…” He decides to busy himself collecting up his slightly scattered papers.  
“I’ll start again. You, you gave a really good debate the other day, the speech and the points were excellent and well… My friend and I-“  
“Which friend?”  
“Glasses, very tall, brown hair? He’s not in our class.”  
Oh, that guy. The guy he would have flirted with, had he not been the best friend of fail flirting attempt No. 1.  
“Anyway, we want to start an activist group. And well, I thought you might be interested as your political views seem pretty similar to mine-“  
“Only I don’t shout down the lecturer in the middle of his lessons.” Courfeyrac leans back in his chair with a smile. Enjolras does, at least, look a little embarrassed.  
“He was making a terrible point, you can’t say you actually agreed with what he said about the government?”  
“Of course not, who do you take me for?”  
“So you’ll come along?” Enjolras’s eyes are wide and blue and just a little bit too hopeful. “We’re meeting one of the hire-out rooms here.”  
“I’ll be there.”

~~~

Courfeyrac, as a rule, is the fun one. Bahorel is the loud one, Bossuet is the funny one but Courfeyrac is the fun one. The flirty one, the partying one, the energetic, cuddly, infuriating-but-everyone-loves-him one.  
As part of this rule he never gets emotionally involved with anyone.  
His friends, certainly. But never anyone else, not partners or one night stands or dates.  
And yet he’s found himself staring, physically unable to take his eyes off of Jehan’s slight figure as he braces his hands against the table and puts forward his argument. His hair is braided, as usual, and he’s sure Grantaire must have done it while Jehan was visiting as it’s a complex many stranded braid that frames his face just so and flows over his shoulder in a way only an artist could achieve.  
His face is slightly flushed, it makes his freckles stand out. His lips are full and set in a determined line as he pauses for emphasis. His eyes are that deep turquoise Courfeyrac has never seen anywhere else before, and it’s mesmerising how it flashes and glows as he speaks with a passion that, on anyone else, would be terrifying but on him it’s beautiful.  
He sighs quietly.  
Buying Jehan the flowers had been a bit out there for him. But then, so had actively seeking him out at work, taking him out for coffee on a limb and cuddling on the sofa. So had dinner dates and cooking for him, with him, and going to each other’s houses to just cuddle and watch films.  
But he just couldn’t help it. He’d been smitten since Jehan came to the first meeting, sitting awkwardly near Enjolras as he introduced him. There was something about his shy smile, and terrible fashion sense and the fact his jeans had birds on them. Then Jehan had met his eye and he’d been bowled over completely, so much so that Bahorel actually joked about his speechlessness.  
He’d be honest, he had been rather distressed when Jehan brought Grantaire along, holding his hand. He’d almost give up then and there until he realised it was a friendship comfort rather than a relationship.  
And so, bolstered by the discovery he set about trying to become Jehan’s friend, and then to flirt with him and learn about him and just… Be with him.  
Love, in the romantic sense, has never been a particularly useful word for Courfeyrac. He loves everyone, in some way or another. There are very few people Courfeyrac doesn’t get along with and doesn’t feel something about. It’s why one night stands have always been so fulfilling for him. But with Jehan it’s different.  
With Jehan it’s like the love he feels for his friends only more, it’s like he doesn’t want to be apart, like he wants to spend every moment in his presence, just holding hands or with an arm wrapped around each other. Anything. He wants to give Jehan everything and have nothing in return, to help him and comfort him and make him laugh.  
It’s killing him.  
Because no matter how hard he tries to stay positive, and that’s not really hard, or how much he tries to pretend, he’s sure Jehan’s avoiding him. Not in a usual kind of avoiding way either. Jehan still comes to meetings, still sits with him most of the time, still puts his legs across him and still kisses him goodnight when they part. But whenever they’re alone, in someone’s flat rather than a café or the florist, Jehan is jumpy, reserved and nervous. Recently he’s had an excuse, constantly checking his phone for texts from Grantaire no matter how many times Grantaire tells him he’s fine and treatment is going well. But it started way before that, almost as soon as they became serious without even saying ‘do you want to be my boyfriend’. And that’s why it’s so confusing, because they are so in tune, they don’t have to say anything to each other before something happens. It just does. And Courfeyrac is sure that’s love, more than love.  
It aches in his heart and his lungs and forms into butterflies in his stomach every time he sees Jehan and those eyes and that smile. It tingles through to his toes and his fingertips and raises Goosebumps when they touch. It’s sparks and it’s fire and it’s electricity and he’s sure he looks at Jehan like Marius looks at Cosette and that defiantly means he’s screwed.  
To be honest he’d never really thought he’d fall head over heels for someone, let alone that it would going like this.  
Because this hurts. Somewhere between the soft kisses and little touches it’s painful to even think about him and Jehan being together.  
It’s not that he’s desperate for sex either, though it might affirm where the relationship is going, because he understands after being friends with Feuilly that sex isn’t always an indicator of love or even affection, and that some people aren’t sexual at all. Though he finds it hard to believe that Jehan isn’t a sexual person it is possible and so he tries not to dwell on it too much.  
That hasn’t stopped him imagining, picturing shadowed lines and the arch of a back and long deft fingers instead of his own. It hasn’t stopped him coming with a small moan of ‘Jehan’ against his pillow.  
“Shit…” He breathes to himself as Jehan concludes his argument with a satisfied nod of his head and a small smile quite unlike the determination that had been on his face only moments before. Because Jehan is shy, it’s hard to remember that sometimes but Jehan is quiet and nervous and he blushes at everything. Even if he can put together an argument and talk for hours if he’s given half the chance.  
Combeferre glances around.  
“Something wrong?”  
“Just… I- I’m amazed by the speech…” Which is, in a way, true. He’s amazed by Jehan’s power with words, how he can weave them together so perfectly and deliver them with such ease.  
“Yes, it was rather impressive.” Combeferre smiles, looking back to Jehan for a moment. “Still, it’s unusual to see you staring after someone like a lost puppy.”  
“I’m not-“ The look Combeferre gives him is disbelieving in its raised eyebrow and quirk of his lips. “Fine. I might like him more than most of my previous relationships but I am not a lost puppy.”  
“Your eyes say otherwise.”  
Courfeyrac blinks, silent for a moment. He chews on his lip and he’s still staring after Jehan as he talks to Joly.  
“I… I haven’t felt this way before.” Combeferre squeezes his shoulder. “And it feels like it’s going wrong…”

~~~

He finds himself outside the florist the next day anyway, having spent the entire day at work thinking just a little too much about anything that was put on his desk.  
The bell on the door tinkles as he pushes it open, Jehan looks up from where he’s dealing with a customer with a small smile. He gathers together the flowers they’ve been picking out and sets to work with a promise of ‘I’ll be done before 4.30.’  
They’re left alone.  
Courfeyrac tries to pretend the awkward pause isn’t there.  
“The flowers look great.” He starts conversationally.  
“She certainly has an eye for colours.” Jehan agrees, lying them all out and studying them. “How’s your day been?”  
“Usual, pretty dull. Yours has probably been far more interesting.” It feels almost domestic. Jehan begins cutting stems and arranging the flowers in a seemingly random order.  
“Mm.” He shrugs, his back to Courfeyrac. “Grantaire says he feels up to coming out soon, I was thinking maybe an at home meeting might be better for him than a full blown going out meeting, he’s still coughing slightly…”  
“Is he still on medication?”  
“For the pneumonia? He’s still on his first course, but he’ll probably continue as a preventative measure after that. Enjolras wants him to give up smoking but I can’t see that happening any time soon…” Jehan sounds like he’s smiling. He sticks a carnation into the growing bouquet.  
“Enjolras is an optimist. It’s sometimes not the best when he puts his mind to things.” Courfeyrac has hopped up onto the counter, looking over Jehan’s head to the mixture of pinks and purples.  
“And Grantaire is stubborn, and is terrible at giving things up. And I mean terrible.” Jehan glances around briefly, raising one finger. “But anyway, Eponine never got a birthday party did she? I mean Grantaire was in hospital and Marius was away on business and whatever else. Shouldn’t we do something for that?”  
“If you can convince her be my guest.”  
They spend the time discussing the possibility of the party, and the likelihood of Eponine ever agreeing to anyone actually celebrating her birthday. The customer returns, then leaves just as quickly as she takes in the pair of them and Courfeyrac’s proximity to Jehan.  
They dissolve into giggles and Jehan begins clearing everything up.  
“You fancy dinner? At mine, Marius is at Cosette’s…”Courfeyrac offers.  
Jehan glances up from where he’s cleaning the worktable.  
“I- Uh. Sure… That sounds good.” Courfeyrac pretends there isn’t any reluctance in his voice and goes about bringing the sign inside.  
They leave hand in hand, blowing out clouds of white into the cold air. Jehan’s nearly shivering when they get back to Courfeyrac’s apartment, cuddling down on the sofa beneath a blanket or two. Courfeyrac gets him a tea.  
They sit and chat, then Courfeyrac puts on music and Jehan joins him in cooking Carbonara sauce. Jehan sits on the counter swinging his legs and just watching as Courfeyrac mixes everything in the pan and measures out the spaghetti.  
They don’t talk much over dinner, but Courfeyrac keeps meeting Jehan’s eyes and the other blushes every time. Their feet brush occasionally and eventually they end up holding hands as they sip the last of their drinks.  
Courfeyrac gets to his feet, stacking their plates, then he glances round and Jehan is staring at him through his eyelashes and he can’t help but crouch in front of him and slowly, surely, pushing his hands into his hair and bringing their lips together in a soft kiss. Jehan’s fingers are tangled in his curls, Courfeyrac’s other hand on Jehan’s thigh and he shifts ever so slightly closer.  
Jehan freezes. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even pull away. He just freezes.  
“I’m sorry.” Courfeyrac withdraws his hand quickly. “Are you not ready? B-Because you know if you’re not just tell me and I’ll stop. Or if you’re asexual or whatever that’s fine too- I mean I have no problems with-“  
“Courfeyrac just… For a moment okay.” Jehan places a finger on his lips and Courfeyrac rocks back onto his heels.  
“Wha…”  
“I can’t do this.” Jehan murmurs, and Courfeyrac feels his heart drop into his stomach, suddenly nauseous. “I can’t keep lying and pretending… I’m so- I’m so sorry…” He looks like he’s about to cry and all Courfeyrac wants is to reach out and wipe away those forming tears but instead he keeps still and watches them fall. “I just- I think I don’t feel the same about you as you do about me and that’s unfair on you because- I never- I needed the contact and I like you Courfeyrac, I do. And when Grantaire found Enjolras and then you asked me out I thought it would be really great, and it has been, but I don’t want it to go further and to get you more involved… I don’t think we ever wanted the same thing.”  
“I…” Jehan buries his face in his hands, his shoulder shaking.  
“I just wanted everything to be okay. I wanted him to be okay and I- I thought everything would be alright but it’s not.” His voice shakes and is cracked by sobs. Courfeyrac opens his mouth wordlessly. “It’s not going to be okay and I can’t- I just can’t…”  
“Can’t what?” Courfeyrac manages quietly.  
Jehan shakes his head and rubs is face with his hands. His eyes are red and watery, his lips pressed in a thin line that he covers with one fist.  
“I- I need to go…”  
“Jehan-“ Courfeyrac starts as Jehan pushes himself up from the chair, Courfeyrac ends up sitting flat on floor.  
“I’m sorry.” Jehan says, and it’s stronger this time though still cut by tears. Courfeyrac can’t get up quick enough once he’s gotten out of his daze, scrabbling before Jehan gathers together his coat and scarf and bag and reaches the door.  
“Wait-“ Only reaches the quiet closing of the door and he rests his forehead against it. “Wait…”  
~~~ Combeferre’s hair is damp when he opens the door that Courfeyrac is leaning against.  
Courfeyrac’s entire body feels heavy. There’s lead in his stomach and a dull ache in his head. His mouth drops open but no words come out, just a long shaky breath.  
Combeferre doesn’t need words, only needs an instant.  
He holds out his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title Lyric from The Saltwater Room by Owl City  
> This has been a long time coming, I'm sorry. I legitimately made myself cry writing about Jehan...  
> Also, this was kind of a little bit inspired by this Les Mis Kink Meme Prompt over here: makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11667.html?replyto=2722451


	13. If You Can Remember - Keep Smiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has been staying at Grantaire’s, despite protests that his place would be a lot warmer, for a couple of weeks now. Grantaire cooks them dinner most nights (Enjolras tried in the first week and had to throw out the pan he’d been using). It feels like they’ve been living together for years. There’s a normalcy, domesticity, in their routines. Enjolras goes out to work, Grantaire stays in a paints (He’s trying to finish a landscape piece of Paris), and then they sit in the evenings and watch films as they eat their dinner.  
> It’s on one of these nights that there’s a knock at the door. It’s timid and shy and Grantaire gets up far too quickly and hurries over to answer it. Enjolras follows more slowly, rounding the small corner to find Jehan. He’s trying to speak, but all that comes out are breathes and sniffs. His hair is messy, his eyes red and puffy and he keeps scrubbing at his face with his sleeves. Grantaire envelopes him in a hug and kisses his forehead gently and takes him to the sofa with a murmur of ‘tea’ to Enjolras.

He’s been going to the group for three weeks.  
He hasn’t spoken once, which is unusual for him. Usually words are at the forefront for him, his strength, what he can fall back on – as such – should he need to. Not that he usually does, h prefers using words. They’re more powerful, reach more people.  
Yet he hasn’t spoken since arriving.  
He sets about resolving that. It takes a few deep breaths, a few passes over when they’re asked if they want to talk. But he’s standing now, he’s standing and people are looking at him and he’s breathing deep into his lungs.  
“Hi.” He starts, because it’s easier that way. It’s a short syllable and he can get that out. “Uh… My name’s Enjolras. I was diagnosed two months ago and um… Well you’re the first people I’ve told.” He tucks his hair behind his ear. “When I was growing up HIV was always something I only heard about in papers or the news or… Well my parents. And it was always something, to them, that bore guilt. If you had HIV it was your fault, you’d slept with a man or you’d done drugs. And if not then someone else was to blame, and only then were you innocent but all those others were just more guilty. But this wasn’t my fault, this wasn’t anyone’s fault. But I never even thought about getting HIV, it’s one of those things that happens to other people. To people on TV or… On film. And there are so many films dealing with this, more than I ever thought there would be. But all of them about dying. None of them were about living with this. About finding out about this, and how to cope. Nothing tells you what to do when you’ve got that test result. And I know coming here will help, I do, but I still feel like I’ve been flung into a lake without anything to keep me afloat. Why are there not more books, more films, more anything about living? About those questions, those hard things to say. Because I want to live. Not like in those films with the inspirational ‘Bucket list’ type of living, but I want to live now. I want to get past this and live life like I have been, like I want to be. I want to live… Normally.” He smiles slightly. “That’s all.”

~~~

Courfeyrac doesn’t cry.  
Enjolras has known him for years and it that time the only times he’s seen him cry is at films.  
Enjolras has been staying at Grantaire’s, despite protests that his place would be a lot warmer, for a couple of weeks now. Grantaire cooks them dinner most nights (Enjolras tried in the first week and had to throw out the pan he’d been using). It feels like they’ve been living together for years. There’s a normalcy, domesticity, in their routines. Enjolras goes out to work, Grantaire stays in a paints (He’s trying to finish a landscape piece of Paris), and then they sit in the evenings and watch films as they eat their dinner.  
It’s on one of these nights that there’s a knock at the door. It’s timid and shy and Grantaire gets up far too quickly and hurries over to answer it. Enjolras follows more slowly, rounding the small corner to find Jehan. He’s trying to speak, but all that comes out are breathes and sniffs. His hair is messy, his eyes red and puffy and he keeps scrubbing at his face with his sleeves. Grantaire envelopes him in a hug and kisses his forehead gently and takes him to the sofa with a murmur of ‘tea’ to Enjolras.  
When he returns Jehan’s calmed a little, though his voice still cracks into sobs here and there. His head is in Grantaire’s lap, he strokes Jehan’s hair soothingly as he speaks.  
Enjolras is sure it has something to do with Courfeyrac. But he’s not sure what, and for a moment he fears that Courfeyrac might be ill or have had an accident.  
“I couldn’t tell him…” Jehan whispers against his sleeve and Grantaire’s face is sad, so sad that Enjolras wants to hug him as well. “I wanted to, but he made a move and I panicked and I knew I couldn’t do it anymore. I froze Grantaire, my boyfriend touched me and I just froze and I- I said all these things to get him to not be with me but he was so understanding… And I’ve hurt him. I’ve hurt him so badly and I never wanted to but- I don’t know if I can do anything else…”  
Neither of them are quite sure what to do, quite sure how to handle the situation. Jehan sips at his tea, his hands shaking around the mug as Grantaire soothes him.  
“I just… I’m only 22. I’m supposed to be finding someone, having fun or falling in love and instead… I can’t. I’m ill and I can’t get past that. I can read all the facts, I have read all the facts but it doesn’t make it easier, it doesn’t help. I’m still stuck here, I still can’t get past- I still can’t tell anyone. I don’t know what to do…”  
It’s later that evening when he gets a text from Combeferre compelling him to come over. He’s knows exactly what it’s about, and makes his excuses. Jehan is still on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket now, leaning on Grantaire’s shoulder. He’s been silent for a good while now, not even reacting when Grantaire says goodbye to Enjolras, leaning up to kiss him.

Enjolras arrives at Combeferre’s a little while later, Combeferre answers the door and smiles in something akin to relief.  
“You heard?”  
“He’s at Grantaire’s.”  
“Come in.”  
Courfeyrac is sat at the kitchen table, Combeferre is cooking dinner. Courfeyrac’s just staring, at some spot on the table that Enjolras isn’t really sure exists. He jumps a little when Enjolras pats his shoulders, then after a moment of staring throws his arms around him, burying his face in the material of Enjolras’s coat. Enjolras strokes his hair gently.  
“I thought… I thought he was- That we felt the same.”  
“I know.”  
“But I thought it was going to happen, that this would be it but- I’m never going to get that am I? I’m always going to be a friend or a short-term fling. Never...” He shakes in a sob and Enjolras tightens his arms around him. “I love him Enjolras…”  
Enjolras blinks a moment, glancing across to Combeferre. Combeferre presses his lips together, raising one shoulder.  
“What happened Courf?” Enjolras murmurs softly, crouching down so he’s level with his friend’s watery eyes. Courfeyrac stares a moment, lips parting and moving to form words.  
“We… We were just kissing and then I put my hand on his leg and- H-He froze.” Courfeyrac pauses a moment. “Then he started saying all this… About how he didn’t feel the same as I did and he just needed someone and- He mentioned Grantaire but- He was crying Enjolras, he was crying and I don’t know why…”  
“Maybe he had a reason you don’t know about.” Enjolras cups Courfeyrac’s cheek gently. “Maybe he didn’t want to hurt you later on.”  
“He said he didn’t want to keep lying to me… But I don’t-“ Courfeyrac’s voice breaks again and he buries his face in his hands. Enjolras kisses his forehead and murmurs that he’ll be right back.  
“He’s been here for nearly two hours, he just stares or cries. I’ve never seen him like this.” Combeferre murmurs.  
“Jehan’s the same.”  
“Then why is this happening?” Enjolras presses his lips together for a moment.  
“I don’t know.” He says eventually.  
“Jehan must have said something.”  
“Not to me. Maybe to Grantaire, but I can’t pry.” Enjolras chooses his words carefully, but he’s sure Combeferre can see through them. “Maybe there’s something he can’t tell Courfeyrac, maybe he wants to but can’t, I don’t know.” Combeferre turns back to the sauce.  
“I’m not asking you to share Jehan’s secrets with me or even Courfeyrac, but I do not want you giving him false hope if there is none.”  
Courfeyrac alternates between Combeferre and Enjolras’s apartments for a few days, but they eventually, between them, persuade him to come to the meeting – it’s their last before Christmas.  
Jehan and Grantaire don’t show, people stop commenting on it after Courfeyrac buries his head in his folded arms.  
They don’t get much work done, instead they exchange gifts and drink mulled wine. Usually it’s Courfeyrac’s favourite meeting, after the Halloween one perhaps, but all he manages are smiles as he gives out his gifts, a stark contrast to his usual bouncing around the place singing whatever Christmas song he’s managed to play over the little pair of speakers in the corner.  
Everyone waves each other goodbye and promises to meet again on New Year’s, Courfeyrac loops his arms over Enjolras and Combeferre’s shoulders as they begin to walk.  
“Thank you guys. I mean it. Thank you. I know I haven’t been the easiest but you’ve been great to me. I love you.” He says sincerely, and if it was anyone but Courfeyrac you would swear they were drunk. He presses a small parcel into Enjolras’s hands. “And I know you’re going to see Grantaire this weekend at some point so I want you to give him this.”  
“I’m sure he wasn’t expect anything-“  
“So? It’s Christmas.” Courfeyrac smiles. “And I’ve been keeping you from him so it can be apology for that if nothing else.”

~~~

He heads over to Grantaire’s the next day. The wind is bitterly cold and cuts across his cheekbones as he hurries past last minute shoppers and a group singing carols.  
The outside lock on Grantaire’s building doesn’t work, so he lets himself in.  
He meets Grantaire on the stairs, standing one step below, which leaves him at the height difference Grantaire’s usually at – just level with his boyfriend’s lips.  
“Hey, I was just… I’m going to get cigarettes.” Grantaire says, like he needs to justify himself.  
“Cigarettes?”  
“Don’t give me that look, they’re helping.” Grantaire folds his arms, his fingers twitch against the cloth of his coat.  
“How is he?”  
“I think everything’s just caught up with him…”  
“Is it the mortality part?”  
“No, no. Jehan’s always been very aware of his own mortality, and very at peace with it. His father left his mother before he was born and his Grandparents helped raise him – slightly reluctantly at first because of the illegitimate thing but they grew to love him. But they both died when he was fairly young, before he was a teenager, so he grew very aware that people don’t last forever in a way most kids don’t.” There’s a small sigh. “He hasn’t told his mother yet.”  
“Oh…”  
“He’s the only family she has, and he doesn’t want her to have to be a parent who outlives their child. And then with Courfeyrac…”  
“He doesn’t want to put him through it?”  
“I don’t think he’s come to terms with it himself. I think he’s scared of… Infecting someone.”  
“They can take precautions.”  
“I know Enjolras. Jehan knows but that thought’s always going to be there.”  
“Why can’t he just tell him?”  
“It’s not that simple Enjolras and you know it. Jehan… When we were very young Jehan was painfully shy. He didn’t talk to people, at all. Anyone. Once he got an A on his English coursework and didn’t manage to tell his mother for three days. Do you understand where I’m coming from? It’s testament to how far he’s come that he went to your meetings, I think he’s just… Been set back quite a few years.”  
Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand gently and his boyfriend falls forward ever so slightly, rest his forehead on Enjolras’s shoulder, nuzzling against his hair with a sigh.  
“What about you?”  
“This isn’t about me.”  
“How are you anyway?” Grantaire huffs out a breath, it tickles against his skin. “Grantaire.”  
“I’m tired, I’ve haven’t slept right in a few days. I don’t want to look like I’m taking sides but Jehan is my best friend. My cough’s gotten worse again. And I just don’t know how to help him and that’s never happened before…” Grantaire’s fingers grip at the fabric of his shirt, bringing them closer together. “I don’t know what to do.”  
Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire and kissed his forehead gently.  
“You’re doing plenty.”  
“It doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m useless.”  
“You’re not useless.”  
“You have to say that.” Grantaire mumbles.  
“Look at me. Grantaire? Look at me.” Enjolras reaches to lift his boyfriends head gently, so he can meet his eyes. They’re slightly watery, more grey than blue. “You are wonderful. I don’t that enough. But you are the best friend Jehan could ask for, because you understand and you’re kind and just… You know I have to go to my parents for Christmas right?”  
“I know.”  
“I’d bring you but I need to explain everything to them before-“  
“I know Enjolras.”  
“What are you going to do?”  
“Joleigh’s coming down, going to spend it at Jehan’s.”  
“I’m glad to hear it.” Enjolras smiles slightly, and Grantaire manages one in return. “I’ll call you as much as possible. And you can call me anytime. I mean it.”  
“You don’t need to do that.”  
“I want to.” Enjolras murmurs, pressing his lips to Grantaire’s forehead. “Because I love you.” There’s an immediate reaction, Grantaire pulls away just that little bit, and his fingers aren’t gripping at his shirt anymore.  
“N-No no no…” Grantaire covers his face with his hands.  
“I do Grantaire. I really, really do.”  
“You shouldn’t.”  
“I know it wasn’t the best time to say it but you needed to know.” Enjolras touches Grantaire’s cheek gently and the other looks up cautiously. His eyes are wide and scared and he looks far lower than Enjolras has seen him in a few weeks now.  
“No…” Grantaire murmurs but it’s more of a whimper.  
“I’m sorry.” Enjolras wasn’t so desperately to stay close, to take Grantaire and reassure him with small touches and kisses and no words at all. Instead he lets his hand drop to his side. “Should I go?”  
Grantaire looks torn, almost unaware of what’s going on around him.  
“I’ll come round tomorrow before I leave.” Enjolras tells him, squeezing his hand gently. He turns back to walk down the stairs.  
“W-wait…” Grantaire’s voice is quiet, but it’s enough to make him turn his head. Grantaire hasn’t moved, eyes following him. He looks panicked, but there’s determination in his expression as well. “I-I love you too…”  
Enjolras smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are from Dionne Warwick's That's What Friends are For
> 
> If there's anything about any of the characters past's you want to know just say and I'll write a bit about it :)


	14. Wish I Was Cold as Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan’s writing on his arms, the pen scratching and tugging occasionally as he transcribes the words he’s been turning over in his mind onto skin.  
> The crowds outside are wrapped up against bitter winds, hurrying to and fro with bags and satchels and the like. He pulls his legs up closer, curls into himself just a little more. His Chai tea sits on the table, growing colder as he writes.  
> The bell of the café door rings somewhere in the background. There are voices murmuring, words lost in the general noise flowing around the warm space. The window steams up.
> 
> Jehan glances up a moment, to meet the eyes of Courfeyrac who’s staring back, open mouthed as Jehan expects himself to be.

Jean doesn’t like crowds. He doesn’t like the way their voices merge into one, echoing in his ears, drowning him beneath their intelligible words.  
He doesn’t like the way crowds are always so close, knocking, touching, invading. They brush past, tower like trees that sway in their own breeze.  
They never notice people, he’s never sure if he likes that or not. Whether he likes being invisible to the masses, so he doesn’t have to talk to them, answer their questions about ‘how are you feeling today?’ and be expected to say more than just one word. But then, it’s nice to know you exist, to someone. To be there, with someone who cares that you don’t like this room, those echoes and the trees.  
He stares, not at the people, he doesn’t like looking at people, but he stares off somewhere and pulls his jumper over his fingers.  
He’s not paying attention to the footsteps, footsteps are loud, they remind him of that film he watched the other night with the clang, clang, clang of footsteps approaching closer and closer…  
“Hey!” He starts, hands flying to clasp in front of his lips. The boy edges around him. He’s slightly taller than Jean, with wild unruly black curls that stick out in all directions, even though they look like they’ve been damped down at some point. His blue eyes are pale, wintery, and they have genuine concern in them. “Sorry… I didn’t realise you were daydreaming.” Jean shakes his head, lowering his hands just a little. “I’m Grantaire.” The boys says, sticking out a hand when Jean doesn’t say anything.  
“Jean…” He manages a small smile.  
“You just looked awfully lonely.” Grantaire continues, retracting his hand and shoving it in his pocket. “Thought I might introduce myself.” Jean likes his voice, he decides.  
“I’m not good with introductions.”  
“That’s alright, I’m not that keen either. But I wanted to be friends with you.” Grantaire rocks back on his heels with a grin.  
“Friends..?”  
“That’s right. If you’d like to be?” Jean nods so fast everything blurs a little. “Well that’s settled then. Come on.”

~~~

Jehan’s writing on his arms, the pen scratching and tugging occasionally as he transcribes the words he’s been turning over in his mind onto skin.  
‘My sky is a blank shade of white,  
That reflects orange the pollution below.’  
The crowds outside are wrapped up against bitter winds, hurrying to and fro with bags and satchels and the like. He pulls his legs up closer, curls into himself just a little more. His Chai tea sits on the table, growing colder as he writes.  
‘I expect no rain, no sun, no snow,  
Only change through the darkening of night.’  
The bell of the café door rings somewhere in the background. There are voices murmuring, words lost in the general noise flowing around the warm space. The window steams up.  
‘You can trace aeroplane trails criss-cross,  
Like veins,’

Jehan glances up a moment, if only because he’s remembered he did actually pay for the tea in front of him, to meet the eyes of Courfeyrac who’s staring back, open mouthed as Jehan expects himself to be. He glances away quickly, hiding his face in the edges of his scarf.  
He’s been avoiding Courfeyrac since the 17th of December, which is no mean feat considering their best friends are dating. He’s not sure if it’s been entirely conscious either, his feet moving him away from the parks Courfeyrac sometimes frequents, the cafes’ and restaurants.  
And now he’s stood about 5 metres away, pink fingers clenched around a stripy mug and eyes just so dark and so lost Jehan wants to bury his face in his hands and to not be there because he’s causing that and he can’t, doesn’t want to cause that.  
“Jehan..?” Courfeyrac murmurs quietly and he steps forward, just that little bit. Jehan presses his lips together.  
“Hey…”  
“I haven’t seen you…”  
“I’ve been busy, and yeah…”  
“I’m sorry.” Courfeyrac says and Jehan blinks, once, twice.  
“Y-You’re… Why?”  
“Because I made you uncomfortable.”  
“Courfeyrac you did nothing wrong, it’s my problem that caused me to break up with you… It was never you. It couldn’t-“  
“I just assumed…” Jehan shakes his head, chewing on his lip.  
“Y-You want to sit down?” Courfeyrac debates it a moment, Jehan can see it in his eyes as they flickers from his coffee to the seat to the window. He perches, in a manner quite unlike his usual posture. “I never meant you to blame yourself, it was never your fault-“  
“Why did you go out with me? Why did you do all of that and make me- If you didn’t like me?” Courfeyrac asks suddenly and he looks hurt, looks genuinely betrayed and Jehan feels himself tear in two.  
“I never… I did like you.”  
“Then why are we sitting here like this, why am I stuck here just staring at you and wishing…” Courfeyrac catches himself and looks down into his coffee.  
“Because it’s more complicated than that.”  
“How? How is it more complicated Jehan?! We like each other, what could be simpler?”  
“You don’t… You don’t understand…” The words on his arms blur.  
“What am I supposed to be understanding?”  
“I can’t-“  
“Why not? Try me Jehan, let me know what’s going wrong and maybe I can fix it.”  
“No! No you can’t Courfeyrac. You can’t.” Jehan can feel tears running down his face now and this wasn’t supposed to happen like this.  
“Why?” Courfeyrac murmurs. “I’ve fallen for you so hard, that’s never happened before Jehan…” Courfeyrac’s voce is shaky and Jehan can’t look at him, just buries his damp face in his hands because this hurts, it’s not supposed to hurt this badly. “And I want to know what’s keeping us apart, because as far as I’m concerned nothing can on my side.”  
“Please don’t say that, please don’t…”  
“I just had to say it, I’m sorry-”  
“I have HIV Courfeyrac.” It comes out easier than he expected, slipping off his tongue before he realises what he’s said. He watches Courfeyrac’s face change, grow pale and ashen, eyes widening just that little bit, becoming sad and scared all at once. He can see the words, thick, heavy and weighted with their meaning and they sit between them and seem to quiver.  
“You…” Courfeyrac says, but doesn’t continue, though his mouth still moves around words.  
“That’s why I can’t be with you. Because I-I’m so scared…”  
“Oh, Oh…”  
“It’s how I met Enjolras. I’m just- I’m so sorry… I’m sorry…” He says it again and again like it will somehow make things better, his face buried in his hands, pressing against his eyes until he sees stars.  
When someone touches him he jumps.  
“What do you mean?” Courfeyrac asks, and he’s crouching next to him and his eyes are so impossibly wide.  
“I’m HIV positive… I’m- That’s the first time I’ve said it…”  
When Courfeyrac moves it’s almost imperceptible, save for the vanishing of his touch on Jehan’s shoulder. His hand stays in the same position, only now it hovers somewhere between them.  
“But… Yo-You can’t be…” His lip twitches slightly. “No-Not you.” A mixture of emotions cross his eyes, flickering, warring against each other in all their complexities and he’s gone grey. Everything blurs again.  
“Me.” Jehan whispers. Courfeyrac rocks back onto his heels. “I should’ve…”  
“I-I need to… Be somewhere.” Courfeyrac murmurs, he’s staring somewhere off behind Jehan’s shoulder.  
“Courf-“  
“I’ll- I’ll see you at the meeting yeah?” He doesn’t blink, his eyelids flutter slightly.  
“Yeah…” Jehan’s voice wavers and Courfeyrac’s retreating figure blurs and Jehan’s left with two untouched cups.  
He buries his face in his hands and sobs. 

~~~

Grantaire perches on the edge of the counter, plucking flowers from the bucket on the side, snipping the ends and handing them to Jehan as he pushes them into oasis foam.  
They don’t talk for the most part, they don’t need to anymore. Grantaire had just shown up, swung his legs over the counter and settled in for the shift.  
The bell above the door rings and Grantaire answers – he has a way with people, it’s why he was such a good bartender.  
“Hello, what can we do for you today-“ He stops, breathes and then murmurs. “You shouldn’t be here.” The flower in Jehan’s hand slips, cutting too far into the foam.  
“I-“ Courfeyrac’s voice is quiet. Jehan turns around, bracing his hands against the counter.  
“I don’t need you looking after me Grantaire.” Grantaire’s lips press into a thin line.  
“Can we talk?” Courfeyrac asks. Jehan nods and Grantaire pushes himself off the counter, heading out toward the back of the shop.  
“I’m going to have a cigarette.” Jehan watches Grantaire’s retreating figure for a moment before he turns to Courfeyrac.  
“Jehan I-“ He steps forward as he starts.  
“Courfeyrac I don’t want to see you.” Courfeyrac deflates a little. “There’s a reason I didn’t come to the meeting.”  
“I know and I can understand why.”  
“No. No you really don’t. You left Courfeyrac. I trusted you and you just ran out!”  
“I needed to think.”  
“You- You needed to think? How do you think I felt?!”  
“I just- What about when R found out? How did you react?” Jehan flinches, just slightly.  
“I held him for as long as he needed me to.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“What did you come to say?” Jehan sighs.  
“I just-“ Courfeyrac lets out a nervous laugh. “I’ve been rehearsing this all night. God uh… I really like you Jehan. I’ve never felt this way before and it’s terrifying and it hurts. It hurts so much because I always thought it would end up like this because I’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t even know if I can do the serious relationship thing but my God I want to try because it’s you… And I know I ran out the other day but I’m not going to do it again Jehan. I promise. I don’t care if you’ve got HIV, I don’t. And next time I want to be there to help you.”  
“You can’t make these promises Courfeyrac. You can’t. Because what if you freak out again? What if you leave when it gets too serious? What if you can’t do the relationship thing at all, let alone a relationship like this..?”  
“Let me try.”  
“I don’t know if I can hang all my hopes on trying.” Jehan presses his lips together.  
“Please Jehan. I think I love you…”  
“No, no.” Jehan covers his mouth with his hand, pressing his fingers against his lips. “Don’t say that…”  
“I just thought… Thought you should know.”  
Jehan stares at him, he can feel his jaw shake as he holds back tears that threaten to spill over onto his cheeks. Courfeyrac stares at his feet dejectedly.  
The entire thing seems ridiculous. There are several parts of him yelling over each other, telling his that this is a terrible idea, that it’ll never work, that for God’s sake go for it, because it’s what you want and to hell with everything else.  
He opens his mouth, exhales, and then swallows. His voice still comes out trembling.  
“I don’t… I just… So much of me is saying that this is a stupid idea but some part of me wants to so so much…”  
“Then let’s try.”  
“It’s not that simple.” Courfeyrac’s closer, his eyes watery and almost desperate.  
“Why can’t it be? We work together.”  
“It’s a risk.”  
“So is everything. I’m not going to hurt you, not again.”  
Jehan looks at him, at his eyes and the emotions going across his face, so different from last time, there’s genuine hurt there, almost fearful. He opens his mouth and breathes.  
“Okay.”  
Courfeyrac blinks.  
“Y-You…”  
“Okay.” Jehan says again, nodding. “I really want this to work. But before anything happens we need to talk, because you need to understand some things.” There’s a dampness to his cheeks, dripping off of his chin.  
“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.worldaidsday.org/
> 
>  
> 
> Lyrics are from Cold as Stone by Lady Antebellum


	15. Ghost Town and Haunted Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras's arm is pulled back suddenly, wrenching at his shoulder. Grantaire’s fingers tighten around his, cold and clammy. Enjolras takes a few steps back, turning as he goes, until he’s face to face with Grantaire.  
> Grantaire isn’t looking at him, he’s looking off somewhere in the distance with wide terrified eyes. His mouth hangs slightly open, is lip trembling with each heaving, shaky breath he takes. He’s gone white, Enjolras hasn’t seen him like this, not so genuinely panic stricken.  
> “Grantaire?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for past abuse and panic attacks

“You’re kidding me.”  
Enjolras glances up at Combeferre’s flat tone. His flatmate is stood, leaning against the door frame of his bedroom. Enjolras blinks at him for a moment.  
They’d been studying together since dinner, Combeferre asking him questions and Enjolras doing the same in return. They took it in turns reading aloud from their books, explaining concepts to the other.  
Enjolras can’t remember him leaving to go to bed.  
“What?”  
“You didn’t even realised I left did you?”  
“Of course I did-“  
“It’s two in the morning Enjolras.” Combeferre folds his arms. Enjolras glances through his notes, digging around for his watch.  
“No it- Oh.”  
“Come on, you’re going to bed.” Combeferre makes a move toward their kitchen table, holding out his hand.  
“I’m almost finish. And my test is in two days.” Combeferre stops short, giving him an unimpressed look that Enjolras knows far too well.  
“And?”  
“I need to finish this chapter!”  
“No, you need to sleep so you’ll actually be able to study tomorrow, otherwise you will run yourself into the ground and freak out more because ‘nothing is going in!’.” Combeferre does a surprisingly good impression, it comes from years of experience.  
“But this chapter is-“  
“I don’t care.”  
“But-“ Enjolras tries again.  
“No. Enjolras you are going to bed. I don’t care if I have to carry you, you are going.”  
Enjolras looks at him a moment, running his eyes up and down Combeferre’s slim frame and then back to his eyes, determined and challenging.  
“You wouldn’t.”  
“Don’t try me.”  
“I’ll be half an hour.” Enjolras tries, bargaining. Combeferre sighs, appraises him and the pile of notes that’s slowly slipping onto the floor.  
Then, suddenly, Enjolras finds his world upside down, being slung swiftly over Combeferre’s shoulder and when did he get so strong?  
“Hey!” He kicks his legs a little.  
“I’ll drop you.” Combeferre warns, loosening his grip just a little. Enjolras trusts him, but Combeferre is also ruthless when he wants to be, so he sets about making himself a dead weight instead.  
“I would have only been half an hour you know.” Enjolras grumbles into the material of Combeferre’s shirt.  
“Sure. How many times have you said that to me?”  
“Oh come on!” He looks around a little, reaching toward one of his textbooks as he passes the coffee table.  
“Enjolras.”  
“This is humiliating.”  
“Well if you weren’t such a child.” Combeferre says, dryly. Enjolras pouts, then stops when he realises it’s really not helping his case. “Don’t pout.”  
“I’m not.” He sounds sulky and Combeferre snorts.  
“Yeah…”  
Being deposited onto the bed is not a graceful affair, Combeferre all but drops him, backwards onto the pillows. Enjolras lets out a small whine of protest, Combeferre ignores him.  
“Right.” He finds himself being tucked in, rather tightly, the duvet pulled up around his chin. “There. Goodnight.” The door shuts with a click, Enjolras lies there a minute, two. Then he pushes back the covers and slowly swings his legs over the bed.  
“Oh.” The voice makes him jump, pulling his legs back in as the room is flooded with light. “And if you even try to get up to study more, I will kill you.” Combeferre’s teeth are white as he smiles but his voice remains deadpan. “Night.”

~~~

“I have to hand it to Courfeyrac, he can find a decent karaoke night.” Grantaire shrugs. Enjolras rolls his eyes, re-claiming his boyfriend’s hand.  
“You’re just happy because you managed to make me blush.”  
“Twice.” Grantaire grins. Enjolras pouts.  
Grantaire being able to sing had been another surprise, to add to the growing list, more of a surprise was his ability to sing such a wide variety of songs.  
Drinking songs had been reasonably obvious as a choice, Enjolras had told him so, and so Grantaire told him he’d prove him wrong. He’d gotten up on his next turn and sung George Gershwin’s Summertime, complete with jazzy swaying of his hips and a little smirk. Enjolras had pressed his lips together, and looked anywhere but him. Unsatisfied Grantaire sat back down for a moment, watching Eponine sing, before he murmured something to Jehan and made for the stage again. Jehan in turn went around the table, gathering Bahorel, Bossuet and Courfeyrac up to stand in a line behind Grantaire. There was another grin, turning up on the right, and the song started.  
“I never met a boy who makes me feel the way that you do.”  
“You’re alright.” The group at the back added, complete with the lean forward and clicking of their fingers that was expected of them, it was almost terrifying to watch. Their voices worked together, along with Grantaire’s tenor leading.  
Enjolras had gone rather too red, to the point where Combeferre had snorted with laughter.  
Enjolras blushes again.  
“Well… You, you were good!”  
Grantaire tch’s and laughs.  
“At least give me more warning next time-“ His arm is pulled back suddenly, wrenching at his shoulder. Grantaire’s fingers tighten around his, cold and clammy. Enjolras takes a few steps back, turning as he goes, until he’s face to face with Grantaire.  
Grantaire isn’t looking at him, he’s looking off somewhere in the distance with wide terrified eyes. His mouth hangs slightly open, is lip trembling with each heaving, shaky breath he takes. He’s gone white, Enjolras hasn’t seen him like this, not so genuinely panic stricken.  
“Grantaire?” He murmurs. Grantaire’s lips move, opening and closing but his eyes remain fixed, blinking. “Grantaire I’m here.”  
“N-N-No… No please. P-Please don’t- Don’t let him see me… N-No…” His voice shakes over every word. He repeats them over and over, always the same. “D-Don’t let him see me.”  
“Who?”  
“Please…”  
Enjolras glances over his shoulder slowly, the street’s crowded and it takes him a while to locate the person Grantaire’s speaking about. The man leans against a lamppost as he waits, his dark hair is cut into a choppy style, his skin is tanned, a scarf wrapped just so around his neck, a cigarette balanced between his fingers.  
Grantaire keeps repeating the same words.  
His mind races for a moment, he has no idea what to do in this situation. He knows they need to get out of there, but where? Where will Grantaire feel safe? Where is close enough that they can get there as quickly as possible, without going past that man?  
He latches on to an idea.  
“Okay, Grantaire we’re going.” He says it slowly and carefully, leading the way through the crowd, towards the buildings at the side. The museum isn’t far, only about 10 doors down, and they make it into the foyer with minimal hassle.  
Grantaire shakes next to him, his eyes dart wildly now. The lady behind the counter looks worried, unsure of how to proceed.  
“Hi.” Enjolras starts, leaning on the counter. “I have a friend here, a restorer named Feuilly. My partner really needs to get out of… Go somewhere quiet. Could we possibly? I’ll pay entry I just- Please.”  
“It’s not policy.”  
“Where is he? W-Where…” Grantaire murmurs.  
“Please, just somewhere, a meeting room?” The woman looks at Grantaire again, he’s gone grey now, a sheen over his skin. She nods.  
“I’ll find Feuilly for you.” She says as she raises the desk. “The meeting room is to your right, the first door.”  
“Thank you so much.”  
The room is full of boxes and shelves, the table confined to the corner. Enjolras pulls up a seat, Grantaire doesn’t move but when Enjolras places a hand on his shoulder he flinches.  
“Don’t! Please… Please…” His covers his face with his hands, shaking his head.  
“It’s me, Enjolras.” Grantaire shakes his head.  
“No, no…”  
“Do you want to sit down?”  
“I think… I think I’m going to be sick…”  
“Oh! Uh…” His eyes dash quickly around the room, there’s a waste paper bin in the corner that he swiftly empties and places in front of Grantaire who sinks into the chair, head in hands.  
“Where is he?”  
“He’s not here.”  
“Where… He- He knows- I know he knows. He saw me-“  
“You’re safe here.”  
“No!” Grantaire suddenly shouts, breaking down into uncontrollable sobs, his breathing fast and erratic.  
“I-“ The door opens behind him, a small chink of light washing across the room before it vanishes again. Grantaire flinches back, curls in on himself. Feuilly takes in the scene, studying Grantaire before looking across to Enjolras. He doesn’t ask questions, he just moves swiftly into action, crouching in front of Grantaire. “Feuilly?” Feuilly holds up one finger, then mimes drinking. “R-Right.”  
The water-cooler is just outside, he almost spills the water as he pours it his hands are shaking so much. He takes a moment, breathes, then heads back inside.  
Grantaire is looking at Feuilly now, though he still flinches at the movement of the door and his chest still heaves. Feuilly holds up two crossed fingers and nods, then gestures to his mouth, breathing in in an exaggerated manner. He nods again, holds up one finger and breathes in, another finger, he holds, at the third finger he breathes out.  
Enjolras watches in fascination.  
Grantaire’s eyes follow Feuilly’s fingers and the movement of his shoulders, they’re wide and watery but they’re more lucid now. The process starts again, and Grantaire mimics, his breath rushes out of him on two. Feuilly drops his fingers and starts again. They do it, over and over until Grantaire’s breathing is nearer to normal. Feuilly raises his hand again, slowly, curling his fingers down and leaving his thumb out to the side. Another nod, questioning.  
It takes a moment but Grantaire raises his hand, in the same shape. He shakes as he uncurls his fingers, drawing his thumb across the palm of his hand. Their hands move almost in tandem, Grantaire occasionally stopping to watch Feuilly’s hands before he follows.  
Enjolras moves toward them, crouching down slowly. Grantaire glances across too quickly, his breathe shakes out of him again until he catches himself and concentrates again on his hands. Enjolras hands the cup to Feuilly who in turn holds it out to Grantaire.  
“Thank you.” Grantaire breaks the silence. The cup creaks and rustles as his fingers shake and twitch around it but he manages to bring it to his lips without spilling a drop.  
“Grantaire?” Enjolras murmurs carefully. Grantaire’s movements are still a little too erratic but his eyes focus on Enjolras now, looking over his face.  
“Enjol… I’m sorry.” He says it with a conviction, like he feels something will happen if he doesn’t.  
Enjolras frowns.  
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m just glad you’re a bit better.” Grantaire turns his head to the side. “Can I touch you?”  
Grantaire ponders it a moment, then nods. Enjolras reaches up slowly to push Grantaire’s damp curls off of his forehead. Grantaire keeps his eyes fixed on Enjolras’s face, Enjolras gives him a small smile. Next to him Feuilly gets up slowly, stretching out his hands as he goes to find some paper and a pen.  
‘How did you do that?’ Enjolras writes, a little while later. Grantaire – after panicking again as people passed the room – is now sitting back in the chair, going over one of the many books full of the museums paintings. Feuilly’s perched on the table, watching him closely, his hands pressed to his lips. As Enjolras nudges him he glances down to the paper.  
‘It’s just learning what to do, you probably should.’  
‘No but, how did you know what to do? All I could do was freak out about Grantaire. I had no idea where to even start…’  
‘You got him away from the trigger, that’s as good a start as any. That was really good of you Enjolras, give yourself more credit.’ Enjolras sighs.  
‘He didn’t know who I was.’  
‘Some people get dissociative when they have panic attacks.’ Feuilly glances back round to Grantaire for a moment, then continues writing. ‘I sometimes did.’  
Enjolras cocks his head, he doesn’t need to say anything, Feuilly just shrugs.  
‘After my parents died I started having very bad nightmares, they… They got worse, and I began waking up in panic, I couldn’t breathe, sometimes I was still in the dream. I didn’t understand what was happening to me when it happened, and my deafness sometimes made it much harder to get me out of it. You never touch someone having a panic attack, they might lash out at you or you might make it worse. Madeline found it out quite quickly when I almost gave her a black eye… It was an entirely new thing to learn for her, how to calm someone down when you can’t murmur reassuring things to them or count their breathing. That’s where the system came from, the breathing thing. She’d make me go through the alphabet too, or follow a beat she was tapping out on her hand. It was incredible. When Bahorel found out I taught him too. For me it’s all about distraction, Grantaire may be different, but it’s a good place to start.’  
‘Maybe I should talk to Jehan. He’s been dealing with Grantaire for a long time.’  
‘Asking Grantaire would also help, it’s a very personal thing.’

Enjolras gives Jehan a text, and the poet meets them outside a short while later. Feuilly smiles and waves them off.  
Jehan holds Grantaire’s hand and kisses his cheek and hails them a taxi and settles Grantaire on the sofa inside the little flat.  
“H-he was here Jehan. He’s here-In the city. I know he knows I’m here-“  
Jehan sits next to him, Grantaire curls up against him as Jehan strokes his hair and murmurs to him – Enjolras can’t hear what. The whole routine looks practiced, running smoothly and Grantaire relaxes properly for the first time since they saw the man.  
Jehan continues to soothe Grantaire until he falls asleep, almost un-expectantly, on the others lap, curled up in a tight ball, hands tucked under his chin. Jehan smiles down at him, stroking his hair gently.  
“Does he usually do that?” Enjolras leans his elbows on his knees.  
“It can make you sleepy yeah, especially if it was bad.”  
“I’ve never seen him… He just looked so scared.”  
“It was a bad time for him, and seeing him again has always been such a big fear that it drove him… Well him being here is such a shock it’s not really…” Jehan keeps cutting himself off, watching as Grantaire twitches slightly in his sleep. “He’ll need a lot of support Enjolras.”  
“It’s not like I’m not willing to provide it.”  
“I know.” Jehan looks up at him for a moment, smiling sadly. “It’ll just be a bit different.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title Lyrics from David Guetta's Titanium.  
> The next chapter will be nicer I promise, and I want to do a Christmas thing, so any ideas for that just say - You can find me on Tumblr under the same name so feel free to drop by if there's anything you want to know about the characters, etc.  
> The opening flashback has a little extra - http://blackandbluemagpie.tumblr.com/post/70232720214/enjolras-combeferre-brotp-they-study-together-and-are


	16. The Hardest Question to Answer is Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s an itch.  
> It crawls under his skin, flickering under his pulse points and in the palm of his hand, it settles in the crook of his elbow and the nape of his neck and into the beds of his nails. It works its way through his body, into his head and his heart, it tightens his lungs and sits heavily in his stomach like a leaden weight.  
> He stares down at the counter top that his hands are braced on, flingers splayed. He has the vague sense that he’s crying, that the grain of the wood is blurring around the edges and that there’s a cold damp feeling on his cheeks.  
> He runs his tongue over his lips, breathes in, swallows.  
> It’s ridiculous. He’s not been on his own that long, Jehan came by with Courfeyrac in his lunch break and Feuilly’s coming by after work and the Enjolras is picking him up this evening. Despite that fact he feels overwhelming like he’s been left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for addiction/cravings, past abuse and anxiety/panic attacks

He’s not exactly sure how it happened.  
He knows he was in a bar, a back end bar where he would never be because he needed to have that assurance, just needed to get out.  
He knows he got a little bit too drunk, on something that probably wasn’t even strictly legal, knows he got chatting to a guy who made an offer that was too good to refuse.  
And he knows it’s a terrible idea, to go back there, to see if he, or someone else, is willing to offer up what he’s after. Knows it’s stupid to go back to the needle and powders and lighter flames.  
It was only once, he’d said, but just for that time he could forget everything. He was relaxed, he was happy. It was never going to be just once.  
Jehan sighs quietly in the bed next to him, scrunching up his nose as he does, and Grantaire brings him closer to his chest, pressing his lips to his forehead.  
It’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid. Because he’s lying here with his boyfriend, his best friend who he loves and everything’s going so well but… There’s a part of him willing to throw that away just to escape this constant whispering, that face that’s everywhere and that laugh…  
That’s why he went back, for the third time in the week. That’s why he’s lying here at 2am considering sneaking out of the flat on his only night off.  
He leaves a note as he leaves for work, even though he doesn’t actually have work, not tonight. He props it up with a small vase of snap dragons, freshly bought, as an apology for something Jehan’s not even aware of.  
He’ll make it up to him, he will.  
Even as he writes it and signs it off he knows, somewhere deep down, that he won’t, won’t be able to. Not anymore.

~~~

There’s an itch.  
It crawls under his skin, flickering under his pulse points and in the palm of his hand, it settles in the crook of his elbow and the nape of his neck and into the beds of his nails. It works its way through his body, into his head and his heart, it tightens his lungs and sits heavily in his stomach like a leaden weight.  
He stares down at the counter top that his hands are braced on, flingers splayed. He has the vague sense that he’s crying, that the grain of the wood is blurring around the edges and that there’s a cold damp feeling on his cheeks.  
He runs his tongue over his lips, breathes in, swallows.  
It’s ridiculous. He’s not been on his own that long, Jehan came by with Courfeyrac in his lunch break and Feuilly’s coming by after work and the Enjolras is picking him up this evening. Despite that fact he feels overwhelming like he’s been left behind. He should get out of the house, he knows he should, but Enjolras took them both out last Saturday for dinner and it ended rather swiftly waiting in the line to be seated, and they got take-away instead. At least Enjolras did. Grantaire had eaten little, apologising over and over as he pulled his knees tighter to his chest.  
His hand moves slowly, almost creeping to rest over the long faded scars and marks that he’s memorised. His fingertips press into their pattern, over blackened skin and raised blue veins.  
It’s stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. He doesn’t know where he is, Paris is such a large city and he’s just another person on the streets, an ex-addict who seamlessly blends in to the comings and goings of the city.  
But yet he’s not. He just can’t shake the feeling that he knows. That somehow he’s found out, knows his flat and Jehan’s and Enjolras’s. Knows the café and the addiction centre and the bars. Knows his friends, knows about his visits and theirs. Knows his routines and the routes he takes even.  
It’s invading his life, again, and it itches like insects under his skin.  
Feuilly comes and goes, bringing photos of the piece he’s working on, and some more books and bits from his house. He teaches Grantaire some basic words in sign language and beams when he gets them right. Grantaire likes Feuilly’s smile, it’s like his laugh – genuine, saved for when he truly needs it and then it bursts out of him like he can’t keep his joy contained. It makes Grantaire smile too, a little. He feels safe with Feuilly, he just has that sort of presence.  
Enjolras arrives just after Feuilly’s left, and he leans down to give Grantaire a soft kiss on the lips before he goes off to make coffee.  
“I thought I might make pasta later.” He says as he digs through the cupboards, eventually giving up and resorting to collecting mugs from around the room.  
“Because it’s easy?” Grantaire asks, leaning back against the wall, eyes following Enjolras around the room. Enjolras is renowned for being terrible with cooking, usually because he just can’t be bothered to waste time actually cooking, rather preferring to throw sauces on things and hoping for the best – or in the least that it doesn’t burn when he gets distracted.  
“It has a chicken cream sauce on it.”  
“Fancy…”  
“It’s got herbs and everything.” Enjolras raises an eyebrow and Grantaire makes a small ‘cooo’.  
He’s painfully aware of everything around Enjolras, how he acts and sounds, how he’s supposed to act and sound, how Enjolras reacts to him and every single movement of his face and change in his voice. He’s like a coiled wire, but it should be so, so easy.  
They eat off their laps, a film playing aimlessly in the background of their close-but not-quite-couple-close proximity. He almost jumps with every shift, almost drops the plates as he dries, he sleeps curled in on himself, eyes staring across the pale orange lit room that’s full of Enjolras’s things and the light spots before his eyes and fades everything into black toward the centre. Enjolras sighs softly against his shoulder in his sleep, and Grantaire replies with a rough exhale of his own, burying his face in his hands.

~~~

He makes it home the next morning feeling ill, the kind of ill that drips into your limbs and seizes your fingers and makes your legs feel like leaden weights.  
He can feel tears making hot tracks down his face as he pushes his hand through his hair again, back off of his face, body convulsing, breathing shuddering to erratic, retching stops.  
By the time the doorbell rings he’s managed to force himself up, to brush his teeth and he’s staring at himself in the mirror, running a hand over his forehead. He’s feeling cold, clammy, and shaky and his face betrays as much, looking drawn with dark circles under his eyes and a sheen across his skin that’s less than a rosy glow.  
Jehan smiles up at him as he answers the door, holding out a tin with an apologetic shrug.  
“I forgot my key… But I brought some cupcakes I made.”  
“I don’t really… Feel like cupcakes.” Grantaire takes the tin anyway, as an anchor. “I feel like absolute shit…”  
“What kind of shit?” Jehan asks, kicking off his shoes. His eyes stay fixed on Grantaire.  
“Anxiety shit.” He runs his free hand over his cheek. “I’ve been home since 10 and all I’ve done is lie on the bathroom floor and throw up.” Jehan gives him a sympathetic smile, because he’s been through it enough to know almost exactly where Grantaire is right now. And Grantaire’s been there enough times to look after him to know what this scene looks like from the other side.  
Jehan reaches up slowly to lay a hand on his forehead, his fingers are cool and Grantaire closes his eyes with a small hum.  
“You want to sit down? You feel a little warm and you are kind of swaying…”  
Grantaire nods slowly, and the pair settle on the sofa, Grantaire still clutching the tin.  
“You want me to take that?”  
“No it’s… It’s something. To have. Just, here.”  
“Something to do with your hands?” Jehan asks as Grantaire places it on the coffee table, turns it diagonally, then back round, then straightens it against the grain of the wood.  
“I feel like using again.” He says and it’s sudden and quiet and it shakes through him. Jehan’s silent for a moment, watching the tin on the table. He pulls his lip back between his teeth, shoulders raising in a deep breath.  
“Talk to me.”  
There’s a sudden rush, building somewhere in his heart and rattling into his lungs and there are suddenly tears in his eyes and he squeezes them shut to just stop it and… Suddenly all he’s doing it talking and it’s erratic because he’s never thought about this before, not properly, never realised just how much he wants it and just how much he knows it’s a terrible idea.  
“I want to and… Oh God I know it won’t work. I know it’s landed me in this,” He gestures to himself. “Mess and I know it split us up and I know- I know it could kill me. And it wouldn’t work, I know it wouldn’t. And I know Enjolras would hate it and that it would break your heart and I hate that but I still… I just… Need it or- Something.” Grantaire presses his fingers to his lips, then down his arm to scratch at the crook of his elbow.  
“Why?” Jehan asks gently, reaching out to still his hand.  
“I just- I know he knows where I am. That must- It sounds so stupid when I say it. It is stupid isn’t it?”  
“It’s not Grantaire.”  
“I just swore I saw him and every time I hear a car door it’s him and I hear his laugh and- His voice is just here…” His hand moves vaguely to his ear. “He’s just there telling me… Telling me to stop being like this because it’s stupid and it just means people have to do things a look after me and I’m not worth that because I’m useless. Because I don’t deserve to have anyone. And then he tells me that Enjolras doesn’t really like me, that no-one will ever love me. Only he ever loved me. And I know- Know you love me I do but I’m just-“ Grantaire pushed his hands back through his hair, eyes wide. “I don’t know what to do… I’m so…” He looks at Jehan for a moment, his face is blank but his eyes are scared, sad and angry all at once. It’s only a second, then he surges forward to press his lips to Jehan’s, pushing him back against the arm of the chair. The whole feeling, of Jehan’s lips against his and Grantaire’s hands in his hair and the buttons on Jehan’s shirt digging into his chest, is familiar. It’s comforting.  
It’s so, so wrong.  
Grantaire pulls back almost as quickly as he’d initiated the kiss with a mumble of ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’ Jehan’s mouth stays in a surprised ‘o’ as he recovers himself.  
“It’s okay Grantaire.”  
“No it’s not. We both have boyfriends. Oh God… I’m sorry-“ He buries his head in his hands again, feeling the panic swell in his chest, unfurling in his throat and making it hard to breathe. Stupid, stupid, what will Enjolras think? He’ll think you don’t love him, that you’re a worthless cheater who’s too much trouble and-  
“Grantaire?” Jehan asks softly, and Grantaire peers from between his fingers. Jehan’s eyes are kind and soft, forehead creased in a worried frown. “Do you want to come here?” His holds out his arms slowly, phrasing the question carefully so it doesn’t come across as a demand. Grantaire nods and shuffles toward him, curling up with his head on Jehan’s chest. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting comfort, something familiar. That’s what the kiss was, it wasn’t romantic because I know how much you like Enjolras.” His fingers gently card through Grantaire’s curls, finding the knots and tangles. “I just want you to feel safe, I’d take to America if it would make you feel safe.” His chest rises and falls in a sigh. “Is there anywhere you’d like to go? Or would you rather stay here? There’s no right or wrong answer.”  
Grantaire mulls it over a short while, knitting his brows together. His hands are clutched against his cheek, his face half buried in Jehan’s shirt and his hair is tickling his nose.  
“Here… I feel safe, now.”  
“Good.” Jehan murmurs against his hair.  
“I just can’t do anything… I can’t- It’s almost Valentines and Enjolras is going to want to go out and there no reason he shouldn’t I mean you do right? Courfeyrac does and Joly and Chetta and Bossuet and- But we’re not because I can’t even do that-“ His breathing’s speeding up again, rattling in his chest. Jehan’s fingers run up and down his arm.  
“Can you feel my breathing Grantaire? I want you to concentrate on it, try and mimic me okay?” Jehan’s chest rise and falls beneath his head in a steady rhythm, his heart beating beneath his ribs. Grantaire’s own heart flutters and feels like it might stop, but he concentrates hard on the movement of Jehan’s ribs. “You’re a great cook Grantaire.” Jehan’s voice vibrates beneath him. “Why don’t you show his that and make him something? That’s much nice than being taken out like almost every other person.”  
“Should I tell Courfeyrac you expect that?” The laugh rumbles through Jehan, but it’s soft on his lips.  
“Don’t be mean, I think he’s already planned something out.”  
~~~

Enjolras is delighted by the prospect of having a night in together. He says, with a wry smile, that he doesn’t really like the whole idea of Valentines as a big commercial holiday and would much rather spend the night alone, without lots of crowds or waiters to bother them.  
Besides that it’s chucking it down, and they’ve managed to make themselves a cocoon of blankets on the sofa as the rain drums outside and they wait for the food to finish cooking. There’s a ridiculously sappy film on TV and they’ve watched very little of it, mainly commentating instead.  
Grantaire goes to finish off the preparation, because he’s not letting Enjolras come anywhere near this, and returns with a dish to find the small dining area all decked out like it’s from a how-to. There’s candles along the side-board and on the table, a single rose in a vase, properly folded napkins.  
“I thought you didn’t do Valentines.” Grantaire’s smiling, he can help it because Enjolras just looks so embarrassed that he’s almost squirming.  
“Well, I said I didn’t do commercial Valentines. This is a romantic evening in with my boyfriend… That just so happens to be on February 14th.”  
“It’s perfect.” Grantaire smiles, giving him a quick kiss. 

“Hey…” Grantaire murmurs a bit later, curled up on the sofa again with Enjolras’s head in his lap, looking out across the buildings outside. “Do you want to go for a walk?”  
“Now?” Enjolras frowns, sitting up. “It’s raining still.”  
“I know. Do you want to go for a walk in the rain?” Enjolras studies him for a moment, which he supposes is fair enough given the situation. Then he shrugs.  
“Let me get my coat and everything.”  
Enjolras’s hand is warm inside his pocket as they walk through the park, under dripping trees and not quite blooming bulbs. It’s refreshing, it soothes him and he tilts his face against the rain until it’s running over his lips and his curls stick to his forehead.  
When he glances across Enjolras is looking at him with a perplexed smile and Grantaire gives an embarrassed shrug in return.  
“It’s refreshing…”  
“You look happier.” Enjolras squeezes his hand gently. “I’m proud of you.”  
“Nothing to be proud of.” Grantaire replies quickly, too quickly. “It’s just a walk.”  
“Well I’m happy we’re on this walk. Tonight’s been wonderful.” Grantaire relaxes slightly at the retraction of praise, allowing Enjolras to pull him in for a kiss and for a moment things are almost better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title comes from Shinedown's Save Me
> 
> I want to do some little drabbles for Valentines about some of the characters from this verse so drop me a message (http://blackandbluemagpie.tumblr.com/ask) and tell me who you'd like to see - whether it be Jehan/Courfeyrac, Jehan/Grantaire, Bahorel and Feuilly, Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta or any of the gang :)


	17. Give Me Your Hand and I'll Hold it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some days Enjolras can believe things are getting better.  
> Those days when Grantaire wakes up before him, when he wakes to the smell of fresh coffee from that fancy stuff Courfeyrac bought him once. When he can roll over at the sound of the door shifting open again and smile at the sight of Grantaire, still only in his pyjama bottoms with his hair messy, holding a tray of breakfast for them both to share.  
> Those days when they wave each other off, and meet on the stairs of whoever’s apartment they agreed on with tales of their days on their lips. And they’ll sit at the table, feet bare against each other, and just talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of drug abuse and anxiety

Enjolras isn’t sure what to think of Feuilly yet.  
He arrived at the meetings a good few weeks ago, with Bahorel. Seemingly quiet, but friendly enough, watching everyone closely and with curious intent. He seemed to not want to trouble anyone too much, content to sit back and observe the meeting.  
Then he had stood up, quite angrily and argued right back at him. There was something accusatory that he hadn’t expected from the man as he signed at him. He’d barely left a chance for Enjolras to reply.  
By all accounts he should be annoyed, that the new member had accused him of not having a clue. But he isn’t, not especially. In fact he thinks he might be fond of him, even if the other still seems to think he’s a bit of an idiot.  
He’s not sure what kind of fond it is yet though, that’s the problem. He had at first thought it was admiration, for how he fought back, corrected his mistakes and worked so hard. But it seems to be slightly more than that, he’s not sure if he can go so far as to say it’s a crush but…  
Okay maybe it’s a crush.  
Enjolras pushes a hand through his hair.  
It’s not a proper crush, because he has no idea if Feuilly even likes men and he knows for sure he’s not keen on him even if he did. But he wants to be close to him and actually get to know him and get the other man to at least like him a little. That might be harder than it should given their first encounter.  
He’s sitting with Joly and Combeferre, quite engrossed in the discussion, smiling all the while. He’s realised over the last couple of meetings that he’s got signs for the others. Joly is a touch of the cheeks, Combeferre is instantly recognisable, a slide of the finger up the bridge of the nose as if you were correcting your glasses. It had taken him a while to distinguish Courfeyrac from the other words he signs, but it’s used frequently enough to eventually work it out. It’s a flurry of hands away from his open lips, circling over each other.  
He hasn’t seen one for himself yet, and he feels oddly left out. He know he has no right to, the others have talked far more frequently than he has to Feuilly but with the realisation of his crush comes a slight hint of… He can’t call it jealously because it’s not that, he likes that the others are friends. He thinks it’s more annoyance at himself for not trying harder.  
He places his work to one side, and heads over, settling between Feuilly and Combeferre. Feuilly glances up and smiles at him, then moves his hands, knuckles together then twisting one hand forward, before he brings one up in a wave.  
Enjolras mimics the first sign, running his knuckles over each other, then looking questioning, as the conversation continues next to them. Feuilly points to him, then signs again.  
“Me?” He points, and gets a nod and a smile in response. Without Bahorel to translate Feuilly grabs a piece of paper and a pen to write to him.  
‘Sometimes I need more time to observe people before I can figure out their sign.’ Enjolras smiles slightly.  
‘I thought you didn’t like me.’ He admits. Feuilly looks up at him with a surprised look, frowning. ‘After the first week.’  
‘I thought you were a little misguided. But I don’t dislike you no.’  
“Oh.” Enjolras chuckles, feeling a little stupid. “Umm…” ‘Well, then maybe we should actually get to know each other?’  
‘Yeah. I’d like that.’

~~~

There are some days Enjolras can believe things are getting better.  
Those days when Grantaire wakes up before him, when he wakes to the smell of fresh coffee from that fancy stuff Courfeyrac bought him once. When he can roll over at the sound of the door shifting open again and smile at the sight of Grantaire, still only in his pyjama bottoms with his hair messy, holding a tray of breakfast for them both to share.  
Those days when they wave each other off, and meet on the stairs of whoever’s apartment they agreed on with tales of their days on their lips. And they’ll sit at the table, feet bare against each other, and just talk.  
Those days are getting more frequent, slowly but surely from Valentine’s Day things start improving.  
Grantaire, once, agrees to go to a support group meeting. He sits nervously between Enjolras and Jehan, looking ready to flee at any moment. Meetings aren’t his thing, he says, he doesn’t like sharing all those details with strangers and not knowing what they’ll do with them. (Enjolras reassures him that their anonymous, but Grantaire keeps quiet anyway and he doesn’t push).  
There are days when he can pretend everything is normal, and he supposes toward the middle of March things are as normal as they can be. Grantaire, though he’s still on edge like when they first met, comes and goes at meetings, he goes drinking with Joly and Bossuet, goes out for coffee. Bahorel’s invited him boxing too, though his uncertainty about that seems to be more health related than anything.  
Then Grantaire talks, properly Enjolras means, which happens maybe less often than he’d like. He’s never sure if he’s meant to hear either, whether Grantaire’s just addressing the comments to no-one, thoughts spilling over lips, and Enjolras is intruding on this private world.  
He talks, sometimes, about his addiction. That’s rare though, when Grantaire speaks – of cravings, of aching deep in his bones and through to his joints, of heavy lungs filling like sponges, how it worms its’ way through into every part of your body like an ever persistent ache – it’s like he shouldn’t be. Like somehow even thinking about using is letting everyone down. Jehan explains to him, after a particularly bad night, that guilt is somewhat innate to Grantaire’s character, especially if he feels like a burden. He wants to question Jehan more, on how to get past that barrier like he does, how he manages to pull Grantaire out, even just a little, but he’s not sure if he can, not yet.  
Less often he talks about the man who caused everything, usually indirectly. He mumbles in his sleep, face pressed to Enjolras’s chest or buried in a pillow and shakes. Enjolras holds him closely, rubs his back in a way he hopes is soothing and gets angrier as the picture builds. It’s something he doesn’t press Grantaire on, not when he can see what even subconscious memories do to him, but his understanding is becoming clearer but he’s not sure he wants it to be.  
“Hey.” Enjolras murmurs one night when Grantaire’s head is in his lap, and they’re watching some film Grantaire promised he’d like or at least be able to make a commentary on. “What… What does anxiety feel like?”  
Grantaire rolls over to face him, contemplating the question causing a furrow to appear between his brows.  
“That’s a big question.”  
“I know, I’m sorry. I just want to be able to… Understand a bit better, to know what you’re feeling and what I can do.”  
“You do plenty.”  
“But I want to know you Grantaire. Inside and out.” Grantaire lets out a small sound somewhere between a sigh and a snort.  
“This is really important to you isn’t it?” There’s a hint of a smile at his lips, and for a moment he’s back to his normal self again, teasing, smirking, winding him up. Enjolras goes a little pink, just at the way he says it. “Hang on.” Grantaire rolls over to dig through one of the drawers in his coffee table, it’s an ancient thing, not sleek or modern but rather a piece made primarily of pine with tapered legs that’s probably now classed as ‘vintage’ and worth hundreds. Enjolras still thinks it’s ugly, Grantaire loves it. “Jehan wrote me a poem once, when he was trying to explain his anxiety to me, before I really knew what it all meant.” It’s the Jehan drawer, which clatters as he digs, full of trinkets and left behind notebooks and so many loose pieces of paper and post it notes he’s surprised it still opens. “No two anxieties are the same but it might help you a little.”  
He makes a noise of triumph and hands him a worn piece of paper, folded several times. The handwriting is noticeably Jehan’s, but back from a time when Enjolras didn’t know him. It’s more loopy and round, compared to his more practiced hand now. There’s a short note on the front that Enjolras skips over, it was private and he wants it to remain so. Grantaire rolls back over to watch the film as he reads.  
There needs to be a better way to say  
I’m anxious  
So I may not be up to Standard.  
To Say  
I don’t know why this is happening  
So try to be patient.  
To say  
I can’t breathe  
Quite right  
But it’s okay  
I know why it’s happening  
So don’t freak out  
If I sound like I’ve been on a run  
When all I’ve done is sit right here  
Or if they all come out of me  
It short shakes  
Or I just cough  
And cough  
Because it’s the only way I know how  
To help myself.  
To say  
Though my head is high  
Inside my heart is quaking  
In it’s web of capillaries  
That my rib cage is compressing into itself  
That my lungs are filling  
With tears that won’t come  
So they’re not working quite right  
Not just now.  
That my diaphragm  
Is turning to marble  
Hurting, cracking  
When I draw breath  
Until I curl in on myself  
To hold it together  
Just don’t worry about me  
Sometimes I just need that  
To say  
I don’t quite know  
Why I’m shaking  
But I know it’s nothing dangerous  
And you’re more scared than me.  
To say  
My stomach is a boat  
Caught on the high seas.  
A leaden weight,  
A crushing grip,  
But it’ll pass,  
It always does.  
To say  
This is how I live  
This is what I work through  
What I hide  
And this is what I’m showing you.  
Because I can’t always keep it in  
And sometimes I need someone to worry  
About me for a change  
Rather than me worrying about everything else.  
Because I forgot what it’s like  
To live without wondering  
If I’m ill, or just anxious  
And always putting it down to the second  
And feeling guilty for even thinking  
Of calling in sick  
Because ‘why don’t you just work through it?  
You’ll have to face up someday’  
But I can’t  
Right now  
I just need something  
Warm, to bury myself  
And keep me safe  
So hold me.  
He reads it several times, he’s never been particularly good at poetry – ‘shocking’ as Courfeyrac once said – but he thinks the description’s clear enough for him not to have missed anything.  
“Is this pretty similar to how you feel?”  
“Sort of. I don’t tend to get the general anxiety Jehan does though, it’s usually focussed on something even if I can’t sort it out. It tends to be a lot more physical in its manifestations too.” He doesn’t roll over, just watches the screen. “I tend to get ill, if it gets really bad I do throw up, and obviously you know about the panic attacks. But yeah, as a day-to-day thing that about covers it.”  
“Tell me, if you need anything like this.” He places the poem down on the table. “Just shove the poem at me or anything if it’s too hard to ask, but I want to… Hold you, though it all.”

~~~

Grantaire’s smiling.  
Enjolras watches him from where he’s conversing with Combeferre. It’s one of his genuine smiles, where his teeth barely show between his lips and he glances slightly down to mask his true excitement.  
A smile shouldn’t be surprising, and yet it is. Today was a bad day, where Grantaire frequently spoke of his cravings, scratching at that point on his elbow that he can’t keep his nails away from when he’s nervous. But now he looks almost relaxed, turning to talk to Bahorel as Feuilly touches him on the shoulder and heads toward their group.  
Enjolras has the note prepared by the time he makes it around the table.  
‘How do you do it?’ Feuilly glances at the paper, watching Grantaire as he writes with a practiced ease.  
‘Do what?’  
‘Make him so happy.’ An eyebrow is raised at the comment, and then Feuilly frowns at him.  
‘Are you jealous?’ Enjolras glances down, not wanting to put the reply on paper. There’s a snort. ‘Enjolras I’m the last person you should be jealous of.’ Enjolras gives a vague gesture in reply, toward the man in question. Feuilly’s look says he’s ridiculous. ‘I’m not interested in your boyfriend. I’m not even interested in any relationship.’  
‘I just want to be able to do what you do.’ Enjolras finally tells him.  
‘Have you seen him while you’re around? He adores you Enjolras, he brightens up just when you’re around. Having you has been really helpful in his recovery, even Jehan said so.’ Enjolras makes a small humming noise.  
‘What did you do then? To get him so happy?’  
‘I offered him a job.’ Feuilly shrugged. Enjolras glances across with a look akin to amazement.  
‘Where?’  
‘At the gallery. He knows art, he can go on about it for ages if you let him. And he’s got a good presence. And his sign language is coming along wonderfully. So I put him forward as a tour guide.’  
‘He seems excited about it.’  
‘He wants something to do.’ Enjolras glances across and sighs deeply, because of course Feuilly would know that, would notice that when Enjolras hadn’t. Of course he would have realised sooner that Grantaire was improving, that he needed that push. And he knows that’s what Feuilly does, he observes all the little things Enjolras tends to overlook in the bigger picture. It’s what first drew Enjolras to him, alongside the passion and conviction, but right now the feeling is more like jealousy.  
‘Thank you.’ He writes, eventually and Feuilly just shrugs like he hasn’t done something anywhere near important. They leave it at that for a while, Enjolras turning his attention back to Grantaire, allowing a small smile to play on his lips despite the irrational feeling creeping in. Feuilly nudges him.  
‘He loves you.’ He’s written, in the slightly slanting script Enjolras knows as well as his own. ‘That’s what matters. If you’re not good at one part that’s okay, no one can do everything. It’s why you have friends. They can fill in the gaps.’ As Enjolras reads he reaches over to add more. ‘I couldn’t make him smile like you can.’ Enjolras glances up at him, then sighs, pushing a hand over his face. Feuilly nudges him, then gestures ‘go.’  
Enjolras holds up his hands, hopping off the table, Feuilly smiles in amusement as he heads over to Grantaire.  
“Hey.” He says as he approaches, and Grantaire turns from his conversation a little then grins at him.  
“Hey, Combeferre and I were just chatting about me doing some posters. He’s organising a meet. Wait he probably told you that…”  
“No that’s really good. Feuilly told me about the job offer.”  
“Oh yeah, that was a surprise.” Grantaire leans back against the table. “I mean I hadn’t even thought about a job, I haven’t been able to hold one down in so long but… I’m kind of excited.”  
“You should, it sounds great for you.” Enjolras presses a kiss to his forehead. “When’s the interview.”  
“Next week, so I have some time to practise my signing at least. And try and figure out all the pictures.” He looks nervous, but the good kind that leaves you breathless and smiling, not the kind that had Grantaire completely unsure of how to even act around him. Enjolras presses another kiss onto Grantaire’s lips with a wide grin.  
“You’ll do great.”

~~~

Enjolras debates how to handle this evening all day Thursday. He wants to do something, he’s pretty sure it’s going to be dinner and a film, but he has a niggle that something will go wrong. He knows that he really needs to have faith in Grantaire and how he’s improving but after seeing him at his lowest the idea of him seeing the museum or just someone and breaking down before he can even make the interview just plays through his mind.  
He settles on a take away, because a restaurant seems too fancy and he really can’t cook anything remotely nice enough for the occasion.  
Grantaire gets back in at just gone five, looking surprised by how quickly Enjolras opens the door – because he wasn’t waiting for him. It’s not intentional, but he keeps an ear out. Ever since the incident he’s found himself far more protective, realising just how much trust Grantaire’s put in him and what he needs to do to deserve that trust.  
“Hey…” Grantaire smiles, leaning up to kiss him. “Have you had a good day?”  
“Pretty usual, but not bad by any means.” He ushers him in. “But you’re the one who had the interview. How was it?”  
“It was actually really good. Refreshing, which I wasn’t expecting.” Grantaire shrugs off his jacket. “But I’ve not had to do anything like this in so long that I think it was surprisingly nice. But the lady was really chatty, and I managed to talk about, well a lot of art… And a little bit of sign language too so… Well we’ll have to see.” He’s obviously not letting himself get too excited but Enjolras can see it in his eyes. They smile even when he doesn’t let the corners of his mouth turn, chewing on them instead.  
“That’s really wonderful.” Enjolras smiles for him, a wide grin as he cups Grantaire’s face in his hands. “You’ll get it, I know you will.”  
He kisses him softly, holding him close and he thinks he feels Grantaire smile, just a little, against his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Another update after nearly 2 years?!  
> I am so sorry, I don't know where the time went it just kind of ran away with me... I won't make promises but I do hope to update more regularly than that!  
> (Hopefully my poetry makes up for it :P)  
> Title from People Help the People by Birdy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to say right now that this is a new thing for me, I never usually write about subjects like this. For that reason if there is anything you feel is wrong, or insensitive or that offends you please say and I will change it.
> 
> Chapter titles come from Elton Johns 'The Last Song'


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